


Through The Looking Glass (There's Another Me And You)

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV), Sense8 (TV)
Genre: Calm Down Will, Dark Will, Dimension Travel, Domesticity, Episode: s02e10 Naka-Choko, Fresh Meat Friday, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Implied/Referenced Non-con, Jealous Will, M/M, Manipulative Will, Minor Character Death, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, MurderBesties, Post Sensates Fic, Protective Hannibal, When Two Different Sets of Graham Crackers Swap Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:15:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6410290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>William Graham-Lecter once wondered how his life might have turned out if he'd met his husband before his incarceration, before he'd been called to profile the Buffalo Bill case or that he didn't have this wondrous connection he and Hannibal share. It was a fleeting thought that didn't bother revisiting. Until the day he's taken away from everyone he holds dear and forced to face the existence of such a reality. </p><p>Will just wants to go back home, but the more he finds out about what has happened between his husband's counterpart and the other him, Will can't help but want to intervene. He can see that trainwreck from a mile high and he worries for the mirror image of the people he loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [victorine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Sensates](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4623987) by [starkaryen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkaryen/pseuds/starkaryen). 



> This fic is inspired by the wonderful starkaryen's fanfic "Sensates" which I absolutely adored. Happy Murder Family Merrily Murdering will always be my favorite okay? I begged and pleaded for the fantabulous author to permit me to post this story, set Post-Sensates with a bit of a supernatural element and I'm so happy she did! YAY! English is like my 4th language so please bear with me. No beta reader yet on this story *scans the horizon* so any mistakes you will see is entirely my own.
> 
> In case someone (though I highly doubt it! It's just that good!) haven't read the Sensates Verse yet, please check it out and shower starkaryen all the love. She so deserves it for creating this [amazing world](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4623987).

Leaning against the manor's balcony railing, Will somberly stares at the multitude of lights comprising the Paris nightlife. The full moon bathes him in luminescence, casting his profile with an ethereal glow making him appear exquisite, sublime. His bearing resembles that of an avenging angel, come to deliver death upon anyone that dares cross his path. _Beautiful. Extraordinary. Perfection._  
  
Biting his lower lip to refrain from smiling, Will eventually caves and a quiet laugh makes it's way past his throat. _Flatterer_ .  
  
Trust Hannibal to be such an incorrigible romantic every chance he gets.  
  
The double glass doors leading to where Will has spent the past ten minutes open with a soft creak. It's the only sound betraying Hannibal's approach. His dear husband, always with the cat-like grace and viper-like deathly silence. Strong arms wrap around Will's shoulders, pulling him back against a hard, warm chest. What remaining tension he has coiled along his body melts off his frame. Will sinks into the embrace, tilts his head to the side, sighing as desired lips press against the delicate skin behind his ear.  
  
He allows himself a moment to bask in Hannibal's love, his adoration and his fondness, his yearning that only seems to grow stronger every day they are together, before speaking.  
  
"I'm sorry. I should have been the one to put Micah to bed tonight," Will says, whisper-soft, fingers interlocking with the ones clasped around his middle, a wry smile at the corners of his mouth as he feels Hannibal's light chastisement through the connection they share. "I know we already talked about it at length. I can't help but worry about her nevertheless."  
  
"Understandable where our daughter's safety is concerned," Hannibal says in agreement. "But it is a crucial time for Abigail to navigate the perilous world on her own. We have to allow her to make her own decisions once in awhile or she will learn to hate us." Hobbs' unspoken name hangs in between them, momentarily souring the night air. "She is young, stepping into the role of an adult. She will make mistakes Will, and of those mistakes, we will be there to catch her and she will learn not to repeat them."  
  
"I'd rather she make mistakes where I can keep an eye on her," Will tells him, concern bleeding into his tone, thinking back to the talk they had with Abigail that afternoon about her first venture going clubbing with her university peers. There will most likely be drinking, dancing, drunk men that would undoubtedly try to cop a feel. Despite the hunting knife Abigail carries around with her and a steady hand at gutting prey, Will still can't help but fret.  
  
He'd volunteered to chaperone, which Abigail quickly shut down with an explosive no, looking to Hannibal with wide imploring blue eyes, the word “Papa!” coming out of her mouth in a comical sputtering, a plea for Hannibal to side with her. It was a true sign of Abigail's distress. The idea of having Will accompany her like a preteen was so horrifying, and was in her own words "equivalent to social suicide", she unconsciously fell back to calling them an endearment that she normally wouldn't use if she were in complete control of herself.  
  
"I just don't want her to get hurt," Will breathes out gloomily. "She's in a foreign country. And I know she's with friends but who knows what kind of sick bastards prowl the night, in waiting to make a victim of a defenseless innocent person."  
  
"Darling, you sound as if you’re describing us, though I would not call our usual quarry innocent."  
  
Will swats Hannibal lightly on the head for this cheek. "You know what I mean."  
  
"I know. I was merely teasing _mylimasis_ ," Hannibal counters, kissing his temple and humming. "Just as you and I perfectly know that Abigail is anything but defenseless." He merely gets a sigh of acquiescence in reply. "Now, tell me Will, would you rather be watching Abigail in the club, known to be her father, in view of her friends so they know perfectly well to refrain from offering her even a single drop of alcohol?"  
  
"Yes," Will replies with heated conviction.  
  
Hannibal's lips spread into an amused smirk as he peppers Will's neck with chaste, bite-like kisses. "I believe that would be an embarrassment any self-respecting nineteen year old would not take kindly to," he says, then adds in a chillingly calm voice, a contrast to the wild surge of protectiveness Will feels through their link, "she will make mistakes, but if anyone is to try and harm our daughter, they will die a slow, painful death and there will be no pieces left to find."  
  
Will smiles at that, reassured to hear the exceedingly composed quality of his voice, the kind that Will intimately knows can draw out suffering from his prey to the highest degree. He turns his head sideways to affectionately nose along the firm line of his husband's jaw. Hannibal returns the smile, tilts his face just so and slots their lips together in an indulgent though no less passionate kiss.  
  
It continues to fill Will with a quiet, warm sense of satisfaction to see how much Abigail had come to mean to Hannibal and vice versa. It took three visits, time carefully planned to spend together by Will  in which both Hannibal and Abigail wisely chose to take part for his sake, for the awkward wariness between them to dissipate altogether.  
  
Some fear still remained in Abigail, yes, but it was more from the bad association of what a father figure once meant in her life than actual fear over the Chesapeake Ripper and Will. He reckons it didn't hurt that Abigail had shed any moral qualms about eating their preferred variety of meat long before they seamlessly fit into a family unit. Shared interest and all that. A little over a year ago, she came clean to them about her involvement in her father's murders. In return, they revealed to her the whole truth of how Will was able to save her life that fateful day she lost any respect or love for Garret Jacob Hobbs. After which she became fixated on Hannibal. If it weren't for him helping Will, she would have died on that kitchen floor.  
  
She was a survivor, a budding predator in her own right and very much eager to please. She feels she owes her life to Hannibal and Will, always wanting to impress. And Hannibal is nothing if not an opportunist.  
  
Will knew of Mischa and how much Hannibal had loved her, the only one that loved Hannibal just as fiercely in return, aside from Will, before she'd been taken away.  
  
Abigail's continued presence in their life was a reminder of what Hannibal lost, then of what he gained in Will. In her Hannibal found a student to teach his vast knowledge to, something that Will couldn't be for him, the first young life in a long time to provide for and an eager mind to mold, one he intends on keeping, a legacy for the future. She will be there to help guide and share all she's learned to Micah, their beautiful boy with Will's storm blue eyes and curls despite having not an ounce of Graham blood. Micah with his ash blonde hair, looking more and more like Hannibal and a dash of Will every day.  
  
Where Micah takes after his Lithuanian father, Abigail is often mistaken as Will's flesh and blood, the similarities in appearance only serving to closer endear her to them. They had both grown very protective of her over the past couple of years. Saving her life was the event that enabled them to know of each other, to experience such a deep, all-consuming, intricately entwined connection. It was watching her blossom into a strong young woman that opened up the possibilities of having an actual family, the inspiration to nurture a child and watch it grow. And they vowed to never let anything or anyone harm their not-so-little girl.

 

* * *

 

They come to a mutual decision that Will may keep an eye out for Abigail, but he is to remain inconspicuous while in the club. Tonight is a night of fun, her chance to unwind and she's trusted them to not go behind her back to spy on her. They both gave her their word. Regardless, she is going to be spied on despite the promise given because they love her and don't want to risk her getting hurt. Will is only too happy to intervene, knock loose a few teeth if need be as soon as her immediate safety is threatened.  
  
The bass blasting through several large speakers by the stage is loud enough to shatter anybody's eardrums at close range. Every thump is like a rock hitting Will in the temples, making his head throb, has him wincing every few seconds. He wonders if the DJ is hard of hearing and is unwittingly making everybody else suffer for it or he's just that much of an asshole. He wonders if he'd be missed if, say, he suddenly disappears.  
  
He spots Abigail in the sea of bodies gyrating on the dance floor and is instantly overcome with the need for a drink. He hunches over the bar, orders his trusty old scotch and contemplates petty torture as he watches his nineteen year old lean back against some unrepentant bastard, large hands on Abigail's hips as they sway to the music rudely assaulting Will's ears. Fingers are the first to go if those hands wander anywhere higher or lower. Then he'd amputate both hands until they were mere useless stumps. He'd definitely pluck out those lust-filled eyes too for ogling his little girl like she's meat.  
  
Hah. Guess who’s next on the menu.  
  
Will senses Hannibal's curious prodding in his mind as he has been steadily broadcasting his utter displeasure at the whole affair from the second Will walked into the club. He assures his dear husband that everything is fine, though not without first projecting the contempt he feels for the establishment. Hannibal's very refined and sophisticated taste is properly offended. Abigail at the least will have a severe talking to once she arrives home about what is acceptable behavior and what's not.  
  
"I'd have to say I'm not too happy with your daughter's current choice in company, darling."  
  
Will snorts and knocks back his shot of scotch as Hannibal materializes in front of him. He takes in the sight of his husband's form, clad in his pajamas and a red silk dress shirt, standing in the midst of a packed club of hormonal teenagers, hands loosely clasped behind his back. He looks plenty adorably ridiculous.  
  
"Oh, so suddenly she's my daughter now."  
  
"I did not mean anything by what I said, Will. I was merely stating that she takes after you the most," Hannibal returns with a raised brow.  
  
"Who exactly is the social butterfly between the two of us that she's trying to mimic?"  
  
Hannibal sniffs, affront in the slight downturning of his entirely too kissable mouth. Will wants to reach out and claim those lips for his own. He feels a bit bereft Hannibal's not actually there to haul into his lap and kiss senseless.  
  
"I don't remember throwing myself at any of my peers, especially ones looking like the poster boy of steroid abuse, dear."  
  
"You know my antisocial tendencies, hon. Don't look at me," Will says back with a smirk, wholly unrepentant in placing the blame on Hannibal.  
  
"My dear William, what is that atrocious wailing?"  
  
"Modern music. Apparently," Will says, then asks, "shouldn't you be asleep?"  
  
"I was asleep. Until Micah lumbered drowsily into our bedroom in nothing but his underwear and I had no choice but to wake and entertain him," Hannibal answers, lips twitching in mirth, at which Will finds himself smiling back almost instantly.  
  
"Did he now?"  
  
"Yes. Upon being asked as to the reason why he was awake, your son proudly informed me that he did not need a reason because, and I quote, ‘I'm naked. I'm the boss,’ and proceeded to demand I give him a cookie."  
  
Will nearly chokes as the alcohol, traitor that it is, goes down the wrong pipe. The mental image conjured by his mind of their two year old is so endearingly adorable he can't contain his laughter. Without even meaning to, Will manages to effectively scare the patron on the next seat over as he removes himself and his drink from direct contact of the crazy man talking and laughing at thin air.  
  
"Well, I guess the 'I-am-better-than-everybody-else-in-this-godforsaken-earth' superiority complex of the Lecter blood is strong in this one," Will grins, knocking down another glass.  
  
Hannibal matches the grin, strokes his cheek with the back of his knuckles in clear longing. "He was asking for you and Abigail."  
  
"We'll be home soon. Kiss him for me?"  
  
"You never need ask, dear. We'll be waiting."  
  
Hannibal disappears and just like that, their little private bubble bursts and the world is suddenly back to its overly loud self.  
  
"What's someone as beautiful as you doing out here all by your lonesome in the bar?"  
  
The flirtatious lilt to the Italian accent and the sleazy voice accompanying it has Will rolling his eyes. He gives the man a perfunctory once over to assess a threat. One can never be too careful these days. He's tall, quite easy on the eyes, well-dressed. He carries himself in a self-assured way that could only mean he comes from money and is sporting a smile that's probably disarming to everybody else. He also looks to be the same age as his daughter.  
  
"I'm Claude," the young man introduces himself, extending a hand. "And you are?"  
  
"Married," Will raises the hand with his wedding ring on it. "And clearly too old for you." He smiles dryly, shrugs and proceeds to nurse his glass of scotch with a single-minded focus as he looks back towards the dance floor, ignoring any further attempts at flirting altogether. Only an idiot would fail to miss the blatant brush off.  
  
He can't find Abigail and for a split second fear grips him like manacles around his heart until he catches sight of her. She's finally off the dance floor and is in the company of three other girls roughly of the same age, most probably the peers that invited her tonight. Will's blood suddenly runs cold, the glass dangerously creaking in his hand as soon as he takes in the scene unfolding before his eyes. Oh that fucking bastard.  
  
"I said I don't wanna go with you. Let go, you're hurting me!" Abigail's French is heard loud and clear despite the ongoing noise, a mixed hint of fear and murderous rage in her voice as she tries to shake off the bruising grip the soon-to-be-dead bastard has on her arm.  
  
Words are exchanged, impossible to parse through the racket that has clung to the walls of the club like a plague but the sound of his daughter's distress is more than enough. Will slides off his seat, practically storms over and is twisting the asshole's arm, the one Abigail was dancing with earlier, behind his back as soon as he's within grabbing distance.  
  
"Dad!" Abigail squeaks, startled at the sight of Will. The slack-jawed expression of her friends at the outburst could almost be funny if the situation wasn't so aggravating.  
  
"Maddy," one of her friends, the one with the heavy mascara, blurts out as if in awe, green eyes raking over Will's form, from his fitted dark blue button down shirt and black suit jacket, the Rolex that Hannibal gave him as a gift on their first year anniversary, among other things, to his flat-fronted black chinos, down to his polished shoes. Will shudders because she's a teenager no doubt, Christ. What business does she have leering at men twice her age? "That's your dad?"  
  
"Yes, and we're going home," Will bites out as he pushes the younger man off to join the rest of the Ken Doll club to curse and nurse his very sore wrist.  
  
Abigail comes out of her momentary stupor, eyes narrowing. "Were you spying on me?"

Will's reply is an unimpressed stare. He shoots her a look that brooks no argument, making Abigail freeze like a deer caught in the headlights. "We'll talk once we get home. Your other father isn't very happy with you."  
  
Her mouth opens as if in rebuttal but she promptly closes it and nods vigorously.  
  
"Right, umm. Let's go," Abigail says, does one twitchy wave at her friends as she adjusts her scarf and bag, and apologizes that she'd have to cut it short in her flawless French. Will wraps his right arm around her shoulders and they walk side by side towards the club exit.

 

* * *

 

"Before you tell me how disappointed you are with how I behaved tonight, I feel it only fair that you give me a chance to explain myself first."  
  
Their footsteps grind to a halt as soon as the rushed words come out of Abigail's mouth. It's still a bit of a walk to where they've parked their cars, though the immediate vicinity is secluded enough to deem safe from prying ears, should their conversation take a turn for the macabre and all the ways Will is going to enjoy taking apart the waste of good air that dared try to force his daughter into compliance.  
  
"Alright, I'm listening," Will says as he allows Abigail to extract herself from his protective half-embrace, only to turn so they are face to face, hands reaching out to hold Will's own.  
  
She takes a deep breath. "I was out hunting," she admits, then quickly amends her words with a sigh. "Or at least I tried to. I was only supposed to be at the club for thirty minutes. Just enough to show that I'm having a good time, dance with a couple of guys that I would appear to be interested in, and go out the back door. Disappear and have the girls draw their own conclusions while I… hunted at the other side of the city." She huffs, displeasure on her young features. Will can't decide if Abigail looks more angry at herself for not taking every possibility into account or at the guy who ruined her plans.  
  
"Who?" Will asks as he squeezes their joined hands.  
  
"You know who," Abigail cryptically says, revealing absolutely nothing.  
  
Will watches her expectantly but before Abigail can give a name to her intended target, understanding dawns on Will and he nods his head. "Ah yes. That."  
  
He remembers with startling clarity the simmering rage he saw from Abigail that day months ago when they came across a babysitter and a crying baby outside the coffee shop they frequented. The twentysomething-looking Asian girl had been yelling at her clearly upset charge to shut up, and would even go as far as slapping her fingers against the baby's crying, open mouth. Abigail had given the sitter a piece of her mind, carrying in her arms Micah, who couldn't be bothered with the crying and yelling as he continued to play with his Rubik's cube. Will had to drag away a fuming Abigail, who looked one breath from clawing the petite woman's face off. It would benefit no one if they were to attract attention to themselves. However, it would seem that Abigail didn't manage to simply let it go.  
  
Figures there was something more to this partying scheme than what met the eye. Abigail had never been one to show any interest in the kind of fun young women her age seemed to be obsessed with. Her very own person suit of Madison Adams, carefully modelled after Hannibal's, tended to lean on the refined and cultured, as expected of her as the eldest child of Jacques and Matthew Adams. To go clubbing, drinking and flirting with complete strangers was definitely not her or Madison's kind of scene.  
  
"Abigail," Will says as he places both hands atop her shoulders, "I won't say that since you were hunting it makes it okay because it's not." He smiles as he rubs her upper arms, helping to fight off the chill. "I feel a sense of pride, yes, that you would so eagerly rid the world of such a repugnant character. But what you tried to do tonight is very dangerous."  
  
"I know." Abigail's shoulders sag with a dejected air. "I only managed to attract a stubborn pervert built like an ox. I thought I could do it alone. So much for making you and Hannibal proud."  
  
"Hey." Will tilts her chin, blue on blue gaze locking. "We are proud of you. But your safety always comes first. And Abigail, you are not obligated to lure or kill anybody like your biological father made you. We won't love you any less if you decide to not take up the knife. Do you understand?"

"I understand. I do," Abigail responds fiercely. "But I want to do this. For you, for Hannibal, for our family. You both saved my life, gave me a home, and a fresh start and everything that I do, it's because I love you both. And Micah."  
  
Embarrassingly enough, Will feels tears prickle his eyes seeing the concentrated and unabashed loyalty Abigail seems to exude from every pore. He leans down to lovingly kiss her on the forehead, Hannibal's pleasure a complete mirror of his own as it flows between their bond.  
  
Will pulls back and cradles her apple-like cheeks adoringly. "Alright. Hunt your intended prey. But we'll be there with you to supervise, yes?"  
  
Abigail's reply is a blindingly bright smile.

 

* * *

 

"Wow, the moon's really big tonight."  
  
"That's the full moon for you," Will replies with an amused quirk to his lips as he too turns his gaze skyward, arm in arm with Abigail as they make their way across the slightly damp road leading to Abigail's chosen parking space, away from the public, already preemptively covering her tracks.  
  
"Wonder if there are any werewolves prowling in the shadows. I bet Hannibal loves to be compared to any creature of the dark. He'll totally take it as a compliment," Abigail comments impishly, soft giggles dissolving into teeth chattering as she shivers from the cold. She burrows deeper into Will's suit jacket and pouts miserably, lightly hitting Will in the arm for laughing at her expense. "Stop it."  
  
Will reaches over to pat her gently on the head in apology. "Sorry. You just looked so excited earlier. You grateful for that rain check yet?"  
  
Abigail nods, not really having a choice since the temperature drop. "Yeah. I guess there's always the next week or tomorrow. I sure don't want to freeze my butt off tonight," she grumbles. "Oh, we're here."  
  
Will looks over the entirety of the deserted area, quickly spotting Abigail's gray Toyota Prius C. They half-jog towards the car while Will tells her of where his own Honda is parked and to drive him there.  
  
Abigail is just about to unlock the car's door when a terrified scream disrupts the relative quiet of the night, making her drop her keys. Abigail and Will's heads snap towards the direction of the sound, sudden tension in the lines of their backs. All too suddenly from around the corner a young woman with dirty blonde hair, dressed in rags, comes running like the hounds of hell are on her heels. Her wrists are trapped in medieval looking cuffs that are pulsing with light. Will's body goes taut as a bowstring and he pulls Abigail to crouch behind the car.  
  
They watch in stunned surprise as the woman falls to her knees and hastily picks herself up, another scream scrambling up her throat as she looks behind her and catches sight of her pursuer, all clad in black, some kind of militaristic uniform Will's never seen before, and brandishing a whip. Its presence causes Will's gaze to zero in on the red welts littering the woman's exposed skin and he feels his blood boil underneath.  
  
She begs in a language Will could've sworn sounded Lithuanian but her pleading falls on deaf ears as she's grabbed by the hair and a collar is jammed around her neck, pulsing with a sick bluish glow just as the cuffs around her wrists had been.  
  
"You think you can run, huh? Think you can escape, you freak? Why the government keeps your kind alive I'll never understand." The man spits on the ground, kicks the woman one more time and hauls her up by the arm.  
  
With a seeming rush of adrenaline and a strength born of desperation, the woman headbutts her captor and makes another run for it, leaving the man with a bloody nose and a colorful set of expletives spewing out of his mouth. From where he's in hiding with Abigail, Will tracks the woman's movements and sees her crawl into a small space, near adjacent with the ground beside an unfinished building, in obvious hopes that she will be passed by. She curls in on herself, hands over her mouth, shoulders shaking in fear and quiet sobs.  
  
Will's hard gaze darts back to the injured man and he hisses in Abigail's ear. "Stay here. Don't go anywhere until I get back," he instructs and quickly asks for her hunting knife.  
  
"Dad." Abigail swallows nervously, but there's fire in her eyes as she rummages through her bag and hands the weapon over. "I can help. Let me watch your back."  
  
"No." Will denies her outright.  
  
"But—"  
  
"No buts. This isn't a planned hunt. I can't risk you becoming hostage, you hear?" he says sharply, hand coming up to tenderly stroke the soft skin of her neck, foreheads touching.  
  
"Okay,” Abigail swallows and reluctantly agrees, ”okay. I get it."  
  
A heartbeat later, Will sends her a reassuring smile and winks. "Don't worry, sweetheart. Hannibal is with me. We can handle this."

 

* * *

 

"You're bleeding, Will."  
  
"Yeah, I noticed. Kinda hard to miss," Will answers in a strained laugh, shallow breaths leaving panting lips. Hannibal is crouched over him, his dark sanguine gaze holding barely-tempered savagery, yet appearing utterly tormented at the same time. "Hey, stop moping. I'll be fine," he says in an attempt to lighten the unfortunate situation he's in, and fails.  
  
Will looks down at his hand, with the large diagonal gash starting from his palm to near half of his forearm steadily pulsing blood, his own hunting knife having sliced deep along the skin, rupturing veins and making it a sticky mess. He's far from new to pain. It came with the job description in law enforcement, and then there was his short stint in apprehending serial killers. And later marrying the alpha of serial killers, whose idea of romance is gifting Will with prey they could hunt together, which would at times manage to land a kick or a scratch. It has been a while, however, since the last hunt in which either of the two had to worry about potentially life-threatening injuries.  
  
If he doesn't manage to calm his heart rate soon he's going to inevitably die from blood loss before his husband gets to suture the wound shut. Sometimes adrenaline can be such a pain in the ass.  
  
The gentle cadence of his husband's voice percolates through the pain-filled fog in Will's mind. "Breathe with me. Concentrate on my voice, my darling boy," Hannibal instructs, a familiar melody emanating from within his chest. It's the Lithuanian lullaby that he usually sings when putting Micah to bed.

Hannibal smiles encouragingly at Will, an apparent contagion since Will can't help but smile adoringly back. "There you are," Hannibal croons. "Now, put pressure on the wound and come straight home." He looks over his shoulder towards Abigail's running form and adds, "You may want to stifle the pained moans temporarily, dear. Our girl looks a fright."

"Will? Will! Oh my god, daddy are you okay?" Abigail cries out and swiftly drops to her knees, face pale and looking to be a hair's breadth from going hysterical. "Please tell me you're okay."  
  
"I'll live," Will quickly assures her with a jaunty grin, and has to stamp down a groan from erupting for her sake. "Would you be a doll and lend me your scarf?"  
  
Abigail nods and hastily takes off the scarf to help Will wrap it around his arm, making sure there's sufficient pressure to staunch the blood flow.  
  
The uniformed man lays dead at Will's feet from a broken neck, courtesy of Hannibal's hands overtaking Will's when he'd been temporarily overcome by the agony the injury inflicted, when he couldn't physically move. The foreign interloper had some pretty impressive fighting skills, which was obvious from the get-go what with the militaristic posturing. Not that that's enough to stop Will when he's got his mind made up. Despite the bloody nose and getting the drop on the guy, he still ended up with a sliced forearm, ego bruised. Christ. How humiliating.  
  
The continued sound of quiet sobbing drags their attention from the fallen attacker towards the trembling silhouette partly hidden by debris.  
  
"Help me up," Will tells Abigail as he cradles the injured wrist close to his chest. Abigail does as told, carefully pulling Will up by the torso, grunting as she goes, a short ”oomph” sound coming out of her lips. As soon as he feels the world stable enough, when it doesn't tilt at an odd angle, Will lumbers over to the dead assailant's body, kicks him in the face, vexed, and proceeds to pat his pockets for keys. He finds the jangle of the metal chain easily and shuffles his way to the traumatized young woman.  
  
"Dad, we have to get Papa to look at your wrist as soon as possible. Stop lingering. Let's go," Abigail pipes in, hovering anxiously.  
  
"This'll only take a minute. Then we're going home." Will sends Abigail a smile that's supposed to be comforting, not that it does anything since she remains looking perfectly frazzled and worried for Will's continued health, which he so far doesn’t seem to be very invested in.  
  
"Dad."  
  
"Hush, sweetheart," Will shushes as he takes measured steps, careful not to further spook the girl. He's had plenty of experience in getting strays of the canine variety to trust and willingly come to him with a meticulous combination of non-threatening body language and genial tone of voice. Hopefully such techniques will work just the same on the girl. Fortunately, Will manages to get to her cuffs fairly quickly, as she proves to be more than amenable the second she realizes her attacker is no longer in a position to hurt her. Her gaze is wary, however, as Will helps. He can't really blame her for the ingrained distrust. There is something in her eyes that has him thinking of Hannibal.  
  
He gestures to the collar around her neck after the cuffs fall to the ground with a clang and she complies with not an ounce of hesitation, more than ready to be rid of her bonds.  
  
The collar's barely off when the world suddenly tilts. An agonized scream rips itself from Will's throat as the woman pushes against his chest hitting him full blast with something that sends him flying to the opposite concrete wall. He hears Abigail's shocked gasp followed by Hannibal calling out his name before he free falls into darkness.

 

* * *

 

Will opens his eyes and it's to the image of an all-too familiar ceiling, with the all-too familiar sensation of fur brushing over his heated skin in an all-too familiar bathroom. He struggles to sit up and finds that he can't really move. Even his head refuses to cooperate, not to mention everything seems to be fucking spinning. He groans pitifully, looks down his body and is met with the bewildering sight of his naked torso, teal blue boxers and nothing else. He sees a bloodied straight razor clutched in one hand while the wrist of his other is gushing blood once again without Abigail's scarf tied - Will jerks from his position on the cold, tiled floor at the thought of his daughter. Abigail. Hannibal. Micah. Where?  
  
"Oh my god, Will!" A stranger's frantic voice pierces his eardrums before somebody female appears in his field of vision. Her face is familiar but not in a way that is personal or even from mere acquaintance. The kind of face that you only see in magazines or news outlets, never anywhere else. "Your window was broken and I heard your dogs barking and the lights were on. But no one was answering the door." She pauses, paling as she catches her breath. "Oh my god, there's so much blood. Why is there so much blood? What did you do, Will?"  
  
"Hannibal," Will rasps out, his uninjured hand grasping at her coat lapel as he begins to hyperventilate. Will struggles to breathe, panic seizing his chest at the sheer nothingness he feels where Hannibal's steady, warm presence is supposed to always be. What the hell is going on? He can't _sense_ his husband anywhere. "Hannibal. Where? My baby. Abigail."  
  
"Will, I'm calling 911 and then I'm going to call Dr. Lecter, okay?" the concerned woman tells him and practically jumps as soon as someone picks up on the other line. She gives the directions to the house and the condition she's found him in, oblivious to Will's mounting hysteria. The demands to know of his family's whereabouts last for a total of fifty seconds before Will's eyelids start to droop and a deep-seated sluggishness begins to seep into his bones, Will barely hearing her next words before everything turns black.  
  
_Hello? Dr. Lecter. This is Margot. Listen, please. I'm at Wolf Trap. You have to come as soon as you can. It's Will... I think he tried to kill himself._

 

* * *

 

 

_To anyone wondering how I pictured Micah to be:_

_ _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A great many thanks to my beta reader victorine for being so patient and overall awesome in her dealings with my weirdness. Hahaha. Thank you so much hon. And of course to starkaryen for giving me the permission to take her sensates!will on a crazy ride to season2!canon universe.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

 

The sound of birds, voices from afar and a car’s honk permeate through Will’s consciousness, followed by the odd sensation of missing chunks of fingers in one hand, painful but a distant thing. There’s a weightlessness to his body, a murkiness to his cognitive capacity that he gradually recognizes as being drugged. Morphine most probably. He definitely needs it, if memory serves him right. Having had his ulnar and radial veins severed, he would no doubt be feeling intense pain without anything to alleviate the trauma.

He cracks one eye open, feeling grit cling to his lashes and sees the unmistakable four corners of a hospital bedroom wall. Will sighs, relieved despite the churning guilt in his gut, recalling Abigail’s shocked pale face and Hannibal’s stricken expression.

“That’s the last time I butt in on somebody else’s hunt,” Will croaks, voice rough.

Thinking back to his attempted rescue of the unknown woman and the subsequent assault on his person, he can't say he knows for sure what happened. There was a surge against his chest, then he was hitting the back of his head against a hard surface. He thinks he might have blacked out and dreamed of his old house in Wolf Trap. He doesn’t quite recall the contents of the dream and easily lets the thought go.

Will slowly turns his head, mood sinking to find that neither Abigail nor Hannibal is anywhere to be found. Then again, Hannibal still has his practice and Abigail has university, he can’t expect them to drop everything in their life for him. His brows furrow, thoughts drifting to their little angel. Hannibal might not be too averse to hiring a nanny but Will never liked the idea of strangers having access to their home, especially the children. _Who’s looking after Micah then?_ Hannibal had better not have left him with a nanny now that Will’s in the hospital.

 _Don’t worry, kiddo. Dad’s coming home soon_ , Will promises, eager to be discharged as soon as possible. Micah hates being away from Will for too long and will always ask for him if he doesn’t have his Dada in his sights. The last thing Will wants is to cause his son unnecessary stress.

From conception to birth, Will was always there for his little boy, a constant presence in the child’s life as he took the role of stay-at-home parent while Hannibal worked. Micah's a lot more attached to him than Hannibal. Always taking notice if he’s not around. Will still remembers in vivid detail the first time he held the tiny bundle of joy in his arms, counting his fingers and toes, delirious with happiness.

Hunting had been more of a pastime than anything since Micah came into their lives, usually taking place on special occasions though neither Will nor Hannibal ever really went idle in between. They sparred at least twice a week, always finding the time to keep their bodies in good shape, the fundamental truth being they are still on the run.

The world may believe Will to be dead or worse but Hannibal is still a wanted man. Will refuses to let himself drag Hannibal down, to be the reason he gets arrested or killed or be the cause of his family’s ruin just because Will couldn’t fight back and defend what was his.

Merely thinking of Crawford finding and forcibly separating them, Hannibal and Abigail and him behind bars, Micah thrown to foster care, is enough to get his heart rate running.

He reaches for Hannibal through the link, a part of him confused by the lack of communication. Usually the second he’s awake, Hannibal would be there, if not in physical form, then a soft, loving brush in his consciousness before materializing in front of Will. A debilitating sense of loss suddenly hits him. Will reels, like going blind and losing a limb in the same breath, the moment he’s met with sheer nothingness on the other end.

“What… where…” Will rasps, trying to rein in the panic and failing. _Hannibal? Hannibal!_

The frantic empath lurches upright but is roughly yanked backwards against the bed like a rubber band. Will looks down, takes a quick survey of his body and its position on the mattress and momentarily forgets to breathe. Panic courses up Will's spine and dread fills his lungs until he's like a dam ready to burst. Only now is he noticing the straps around his arms, his abdominal area and his legs holding him down like some kind of violent mental patient. The very thought of mental illness in any way applied to him has Will shuddering.

The turning of the knob steals his attention and he looks up fast, hard enough to give himself whiplash. Will winces, vision doubling for a second, dread turning to fear, imagination getting the best of him as he sees the door opening halfway with a spike of foreboding.

Green hospital scrubs come into view followed by a somber face morphing into a friendly smile as soon as warm sky-blue eyes meet his.

“Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Graham. I see you’re finally awake. How are we feeling?” The nurse, probably, greets Will, high-spirited and too chipper for someone that may or may not know he’s talking to a serial killer.

The feeling of relief at seeing a face not belonging to a past he'd left behind lasts for but a moment as anxiety crawls up Will’s throat. He’s had near a dozen aliases to his face for the past years but he hasn’t been Will Graham since his marriage to Hannibal, and even more so, he’s never been Will Graham outside of family since Buffalo Bill.

“Would you like some water, Mr. Graham?” The voice sounds as if Will is hearing it from underwater but somehow he's able to nod, heart racing so fast he can almost feel it try to make a hasty exit through his mouth.

He's jolted a little in place as the bed’s mechanism pushes the headrest to curve upwards until Will is upright enough to accept the offered glass of water and sips on the straw.

Where the fuck is his husband and why can’t he fucking get a read on him, Will thinks desperately. _Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead._ He's never been the praying type and he doesn't have any illusions about God but at that moment he finds himself bargaining to any higher power that would hear to spare Hannibal’s life. _Honey, please. Answer me dammit!_

The hospital room door fully opens, revealing a face Will dreaded seeing no more than a couple of minutes ago. Jack Crawford’s hulking figure stands by the door frame, hands in his pockets, FBI-issued gun strapped to his waist as his dark eyes gravely sweep over Will’s form before he strides into the room. Will’s stomach drops somewhere on the floor.

In that moment, Will knows without a shadow of a doubt that he's never ever going to hear Hannibal's voice or see him again.

Tears well up in his eyes, reality hitting him like a freight train as he feels everything in his world come crashing down. Mind a jumbled, chaotic mess, Will can no longer think clearly, can't come up for air. He’s breaking up inside, broken sobs erupting from his chest, wheezing and gasping, _nononononono_ , as he crumbles in on himself.

Jack has barely made it to Will's bedside when the empath twists and makes a grab for Jack despite the binds locking him in place. The FBI agent jerks a step backward, stunned at the hostility. “What is going on here?” he barks at the nurse, perturbed gaze trained at Will.

Snarls rumbling out of his throat that don’t sound quite human, Will is the perfect picture of furious.

“I don’t know, he was fine just a second ago,” the nurse answers, just as caught off guard at the dramatic change in the patient’s behavior. “Although, I guess with what he did to himself, he’s not exactly stable is he?” he says, then shuts up at seeing the FBI agent's dour glare. “Sorry. That was uncalled for," he apologizes, then looks back to Will and swears under his breath. "Mr. Graham, please try to stay calm.”

The enraged empath pays no heed to the nurse’s pleas, thrashing with teeth bared, jaw snapping as if he wants to take a chunk out of Crawford's flesh and spits out poisonously, “You had the goddamn nerve to show yourself. Came to gloat, did you? You’re dead, Jack. You hear me? You’re fucking dead!”

The bandages wrapping Will’s wrist and taking up the majority of his forearm spot fresh blood but blazing dark blue eyes stay firmly on Jack.

"Will—" Jack starts but is interrupted with a particularly vicious growl. He turns to the nurse, hand over his forehead and asks loudly, worried, unflattering lines wrinkling the furrow of his thick eyebrows, "What the hell did you people give him?"

“I’m gonna have to ask you to leave the room, sir," the nurse states matter of factly, ignoring Jack's question to place a comforting hand against Will's shoulder that only gets a violent twitch in response and a snap of teeth.

Jack takes his eyes off Will, visibly ill at ease at the sheer animal-like behavior.

Arms akimbo, Jack huffs, bristling at the nurse's command, affronted in a way only a man who exudes authority on a daily basis and expects unfailing respect from everyone in his vicinity could. "I'd like to stay and help sort out this mess."

"We're gonna need to up his dosage enough to make him sleep," the nurse clarifies. "His sutures will need re-stitching and his vitals will need to be monitored. I'm sorry Agent Crawford but we can't allow further stress on the patient and you're obviously a stressor. Your _official FBI business,_ as you called it, will have to wait." He straightens out and reaches for the morphine drip.

Jack looks ready to argue but the nurse quells him with a look. It's apparent on the FBI agent's face that he's torn between impressed and aggravated.

The nurse's words somehow pass through Will's fury, serving to cause him to thrash more violently, wide eyes spinning back to the nurse's considerable bulk. The immediate threat to his consciousness has Will yanking more strongly at his binds, scrambling backwards as best he can no matter how futile, refusal in every shake of his head, blood staining the sheets.

Hannibal may no longer be with him - Will's eyes sting again, tears cascading down wet cheeks as he fights off the keen, desolate wailing just ready to burst out his chest at the very thought - but he still has Micah and Abigail to think about. He doesn't know what's happened to them, he's not clear on the circumstances that led him to this nightmare but he knows he has to find them. 

He doesn't know how he'll survive without the other half of him excruciatingly ripped away. He feels half a person, operating on half a life. But somehow, he knows he will have to carry on. Hannibal wouldn't succumb to the devastation and the loss if he was in Will's shoes, this he knows in the torn up and mutilated muscle he once called a heart. He'll take these feelings with him. Fuel his anger. And make _them_ pay.

Will is going to collect his children and escape to another country but not before making certain that Jack and whoever the fuck else found them overseas, despite how careful they'd been, would never get the chance to ruin what remains of his life again. 

"Alright. But you tell me as soon as he's okay for visitors," Jack says and holds his hand up in surrender, glancing once more at Will, who looks ready to murder him where he stands were it not for the restraints holding him.

"Of course, Agent Crawford," confirms the nurse before he does to Will the inevitable.

Even as Will swears and snaps at the nurse to not even fucking dare think of going anywhere near his morphine drip or he'll deeply regret it for the rest of his natural, soon to be short, life, his threats are ignored. With both body and mind betraying him, the sick slide of the unwanted chemical into his nerves turns into a comforting buzz.

"This is for your own good, Mr. Graham. You'll feel much better when you wake up."

Will highly doubts that. What the hell does he know? So many things he wants to do to that overly friendly face, to Jack's frowning mug, but he feels useless.

Will’s head lolls to the side, face going slack as he waits for darkness to take over. “Hannibal. Hannibal," he murmurs his husband's name over and over in a defeated, broken sob, unable to do anything else with limbs feeling like lead.

There's an intake of breath from Jack and Will manages to tilt his face a fraction toward the agent despite the increasing loss of lucidity. He watches through half-lidded eyes the head of the BAU take out his phone and place the device against his ear. There's a short wait before Jack is speaking, saying a name that jolts Will's dead heart to beating again.

"Hello, Dr. Lecter. Ah yes, you said to call once Will awakes."

A single shallow gasp escapes Will, hope surging in his chest despite the possibility he's most likely only hearing things he wants to hear due to the desolate feeling that has him coiled tight in its unforgiving grip. He needs to stay awake, needs to hear Jack say Hannibal’s name again, figure out where he is, what’s going on, yet the drug forced into his system steals away his consciousness just as it’s designed to do.

He sees one last time with a sinking feeling as Jack opens the door and leaves the room before he's finally taken under.

 

* * *

 

Will comes to awareness just as another nurse is putting the finishing touch to his stitches, left arm free from the leather straps holding him prisoner. Will doesn’t give the new face any chance to call for help, punching him in the throat as hard as he can in his slightly dazed state as soon as their eyes meet, before hastily unlocking the rest of his restraints while the young man across him struggles for air.

A little less than a minute and he's free, ripping out the needle pumping him sedatives. Will  stumbles forward, fingers closing in and bangs the nurse's head against the nearest wall, watches indifferently as he slumps out cold on the floor. He can't find it in himself to feel guilt for hurting an innocent, even one that still looks a little wet behind the ears, sporting fresh naivety that makes him an easy target. He picks up a pair of scissors. Will has his priorities and would stop at nothing in achieving his goal.

Already, he can feel his pain threshold being put to the test as his body rebels against the discontinued supply of morphine into his bloodstream. He sways where he stands, shakes off the dizziness and grits his teeth, determined.

He glances at his hand and inspects the clean bandage wrapped gingerly around the wound trailing from palm to forearm, a low whimper emanating from his chest at the absence of his wedding ring, the tan line peeking through the dressing a jarring reminder of what he just lost.

Dragging the body to the corner and ridding it of clothes proves hell on Will's sore muscles, still bruised and stiff not only from the fight the night prior but also from the thrashing and writhing of earlier when he’d seen Jack's face. The reminder of the FBI agent's visit and the hallucination - because what else could it be when he literally feels empty - that he saw of Jack making the call to Hannibal as if he’s still alive, has Will clutching his chest, hard enough to break skin as unimaginable pain once again slams into his solar plexus and spreads through his limbs.

Will takes an agonizing breath, a grieving sob catching in his throat despite how much he tries to keep a lid on his heartache. _Hannibal_.

It hurts too much. It's still too soon. But he knows this can’t go on. _I can’t be effective if I’m drowning_ _in misery_ , Will thinks snappishly and wipes the fresh tears blurring his eyesight, angry at himself for being so weak. For years Hannibal has been in his heart, in his mind, in his body and in his soul so that now, no longer being able to call on him, to see him, hear him or touch him, Will feels like the undead lumbering through an imitation of life with a gaping chasm inside him that can never be filled.

He hits himself in the head, not caring for the bruising and swelling he feels, once, twice, as if in doing so he can force the thoughts of Hannibal from the forefront of his mind, place them in his memory palace under lock and key, never to be accessed again.

It doesn’t help much. Not really. But it’s a start. Enough so he doesn’t rip apart at the seams.

Will draws a hand up his face and just tries to breathe, asking himself for what feels like the millionth time how is he supposed to survive this permanent separation.

Hannibal was Will. And Will was Hannibal. They were one and the same. Conjoined.

The faces of Micah and Abigail flash through his mind’s eye, giving him much-needed strength, a respite no matter how temporary from the emotional breakdown dragging him kicking and screaming through the lowest parts of Hell. Will takes a steadying breath, steeling himself and makes for the door.

By a small amount of luck, there isn’t a security detail outside his room. He doesn’t know how to receive that bit of revelation. Did Jack really think he’s not enough of a threat to warrant guards? Then again, why does he care when it prevents the hassle of overpowering and breaking the neck of some self-entitled, preening FBI agent?

Time is lost on him but judging by the amount of daylight passing through the glass windows on the upper walls of the hospital hallway, it could be anywhere between noon and four.

As Will walks, head down and hands deep in the pockets of the stolen hospital scrubs he’s wearing, he feels a gnawing sense of deja vu. He finds himself making turns he shouldn’t know and ducking to corners where there’s only a few people by whom to remain undetected. The department signs he’s passing even begin to look somewhat familiar.

It’s only then, when Will’s finally outside taking hurried steps down the stairs, and looks up at his surroundings that he’s hit with perfect, shocking clarity. Head turning from side to side and spotting even more familiar landmarks, Will stares in disbelief. He looks behind him and just makes out the name of the hospital and feels a dizzying amount of confusion practically punch him in the face.  

How the hell is he back in Wolf Trap?

Question after question bombard his reeling mind, such that a part of him almost wants to go back inside the hospital and demand answers. A bad idea if ever there was one. Once Jack finds out about what he’d done to the nurse and his escape attempt, no doubt he’s going to want to have Will strapped back to that damnable bed for the foreseeable future the second he shows his face.

Will takes one step, two steps, until he’s got a momentum going, forcing his still-weakened body to put distance between himself and the hospital. He can’t risk anyone seeing him and bringing him back inside. Not when he still has no idea what exactly happened to his family. Is Jack holding his children? Or are they still safe back in Paris? Did Abigail run, Micah in tow before the authorities found them? Did Hannibal put them to safety before he - Will’s laborious run slows to a half-jog, hand over his throat as fear he’s never felt before devours what little control over his sanity he has left.

_No, no, no. It can’t be. They’re fine. They’re not dead. No! Not my Abby, not my Micah!_

Tremors rock his body, anxiety hammering his insides mercilessly as Will pitches forward, right arm shooting out in reflex to break the fall, seconds away from smashing his face against concrete. He pulls himself up but the shakes rattle him from head to toe, heart ready to jump out of his ribcage with how fast it’s beating, impossible to get back to his feet. Instead, he only manages to sit and lean against someone’s car, clawing at his throat, at his chest as he struggles for air. He’s having a panic attack and while he might have been able to calm down on his own before meeting Hannibal, it has been years since he’d had to do this alone.

 _Alone_.

The keening wail just waiting to burst free from the moment he could no longer sense his husband erupts from his throat. Will’s arms lock around himself, legs bent against his chest in a near fetal position as he rocks in place. He cries akin to a dying animal in between stifled screams against closed fists, angry and despairing, tears pouring down red-rimmed eyes with Hannibal’s name upon his lips, heart shattering into pieces all over again.

He’s so lost in his heartache, slave to the panic coursing through every molecule that it takes Will a moment to take notice of the voice calling him by his last name.

“Mr. Graham. I asked if you were you alright? I heard about your… incident. Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?” Will’s head snaps to the right and he has to blink back tears before seeing clearly. He takes in the vibrant color of red in his direct line of sight and freezes.

The woman is crouched beside him, though not near enough as to be within grabbing distance. Still, it will only take Will one lunge and he’d have that pale throat in his grip, squeezing the life out of that slim frame.

It’d be quick and easy. Lounds never did endear herself to him and his husband, even with the whole _Murder_ _Husbands_ shtick she had going that amused Hannibal to no end. He’d be doing the world a favor by ridding her from it. And frankly, she’ll be a good enough distraction from the agony. He just wants to hurt someone as much as he is hurting and she’s so close.

She rises to her feet and takes a cautious step back, eyes widening, wary and fearful within their locked gazes. She can only be seeing murder on his face to warrant such a reaction.

He can put an end to her offending existence, right then and there and will only get a fraction of satisfaction from a fresh kill, and then what? He’s in a city he’s never been back to in years with no clue how he got there, no family in sight, no direction in enemy territory and still reeling from his other half’s death. One wrong move and that’s it. What if Abigail and Micah are waiting for him? He can’t go into this blind, can’t let his fraying emotions rule him.

Will assesses Freddie’s initial approach in a different light. If there was one thing that he and Hannibal agreed upon when it came to Ms. Lounds it’s that she is willing to take stupid risks if it means she feels she’s uncovering a truth that no one else saw coming. She also trusts the authorities as far as she can throw them. With her disregard for privacy, she’ll have contacts: eyes and ears in places where they shouldn’t be. If he plays his cards right, she may help shed some light on the predicament he is currently in.

“Freddie,” Will begins, voice a hoarse, crackling sound even as he feels calm wash over him from the new course of action taking shape. It only takes the smallest effort to show despair -  he’s still close to shattering, a broken teacup with pieces only held haphazardly together by sheer force of will - and soon enough Lounds’ mistrustful look melts into something close to pity. Will stammers out, “I… I need your help.”

“Did Dr. Lecter do this to you?”  she asks.

The question catches Will by surprise, eyes widening a fraction. Is she asking if Hannibal inflicted the injury? Knowing her, that should be the last thing she'd think the _Murder Husbands_ capable of. She’s always angled Will's disappearance and Hannibal's escape the act of besotted killers in love. For all of her antagonistic comments, there's always a flair of romance in her articles whenever she makes mention of them, before she got bored with nothing but speculations and moved on to shinier things. Last he heard of her, she was publishing stories about some Tooth Fairy. 

“I’m… sorry, I don't understand,” he replies, brows furrowed as he rises gingerly to his feet, right hand over the one on his left, hissing in pain. There's fresh blood dotting the dressing again, sutures reopened.  
  
Freddie takes a step forward to help, but seems to think better of it and stays where she is. “I've told you this before, it hardly makes sense does it? One second you were swearing up and down that he was the Ripper, even almost had him killed during your incarceration and suddenly you’re back in therapy together? And then this, a suicide attempt. Makes one wonder what kind of unorthodox therapy he's yet again subjected his favorite patient to. I heard you even used a gift of his in slicing yourself open."  
  
Will stares, uncomprehending, not quite able to process the crazy nonsense that just came out of her mouth. But even so, hearing her say Hannibal's name and the Ripper in one sentence has him snapping to attention. Further confusion hits him, however, hearing the rest of her words. What does she mean about being in therapy together? He tried to get Hannibal killed? What of being incarcerated? And why would he be swearing Hannibal was the Ripper when the world already knew who he was years before they met, before he appeared in Hobbs' kitchen to help Will save Abigail's life?  
  
He looks at her, eyes narrowing, questioning. Not only is he nowhere near figuring out what happened to him, the tabloid journalist is now telling him things that he knows nothing of. He's more baffled than he was earlier.  
  
"What- what are you talking about Freddie?"  
  
"You, Graham." Freddie points at his arm, appearing genuinely concerned for the first time since he'd met her. Or she could just be fishing for a scoop. Most likely. He looks down at his injury, then back at her. "What?"  
  
"He influenced you in killing yourself. You suspect him of being the Ripper so he didn't waste any time did he? What did they call it? Psychic driving?"

She sounds so smug and self-assured, the concern from earlier gone as she looks at Will like a cat that got the canary. Will wonders why this particular information seem to be of import to her. Is she suddenly angling for Will as the victim of capture bonding? Why even bother? Just what exactly is she playing at? 

"I don't know what you're talking about," Will says with a shake of his head.

Hannibal had done worse things than psychic driving to him during the early days of their bond but he's kept his word since running away together. Nothing happens to Will without his express permission. No more murders using his body. Hannibal is only allowed to take over when Will is either compromised or too weak to operate on his own. 

 _Nothing useful is gonna come out of this_ , Will deduces, feeling a little disappointed that he's gonna have to leave Freddie her life. He's on a tight schedule, has children to find and FBI agents to murder, and right now, he needs to be away from here so he can plan on what best action to take. Killing Freddie and figuring out what to do with the body afterwards sounds too tedious and time-consuming.

Having had enough of the confusing conversation, Will says, dismissive, "Have a nice life, Freddie.” With a grimace and a slight wobble in his step, he walks past Freddie toward the other side of the deserted public park, still only a few turns away from the hospital. He needs distance.  
  
"Oh come on, Graham. Don't tell me after all he's done to you, to Abigail Hobbs. After he killed her and blamed you for it, you're still taking his side?" Freddie calls out to him, making Will's ears ring and his back snap into a rigid line. He slowly turns, every part of him snarling against the damnable accusation.  
  
"What did you say?" Will growls, and is then taking a couple menacing steps forward, hands clenched by his sides, a darkness overtaking the glint in his narrowed gaze, begging to be satiated. Freddie's whole body exhibits tension not dissimilar to that of cornered prey, eyes wide, fingers clutching the camera she holds against her chest in a vice-like grip.  
  
"I asked you, Lounds, mind repeating that one more time?" Will hisses, good hand clamping down on one thin shoulder, a bloodthirsty grin breaking out of his face as he feels her shudder in his grip.  
  
"I didn't, I shouldn't have said that lightly. I didn't know Abigail's still a sore spot…" Freddie tries but Will hears none of it and gives in to the urge, grabs her by her pale neck. Will turns her around, back to chest. She lets out a startled scream which Will quickly silences with a pair of scissors kissing along her jugular, smiles at the sound of her fearful whimper.  
  
"That's right," Will hisses in her ear. "You don't know. Hannibal would never hurt our daughter. Let alone kill her. I don't know what game you're playing Freddie, but you better leave my daughter and husband out of it or _else_ ."  
  
"Oh god, you're delusional," Freddie squawks, then becomes blissfully silent when he presses the sharp end of the weapon against her skin enough to draw blood.  
  
"Good girl," Will says patronizingly. "Do we have an agreement Freddie? I’d hate it if my hand were to slip." The redhead nods, shaking so hard in Will's hold it's a wonder she doesn't just dislodge herself all on her own.  
  
Will's about to knock her out, push her off and away for a hopefully swift escape when Jack's booming voice fills the quiet of the park. Freddie shouts _help_ and struggles in his grasp. Will's head jerks from one spot to the next, counts a total of six armed men and two hospital orderlies suddenly closing in and swears.  
  
"Will, let the girl go!" Jack booms yet again. Will is getting really sick of the steamroller quality to the man's voice. "This isn't you, Will. Let her go before you do anything that you'll regret."  
  
"Shut up, Jack. You don't get to fucking talk to me! You took away my happiness, destroyed my life!" Will yells out, anger and heartbreak rising with increasing intensity once more now that he's face to face with the man who undoubtedly put a bullet in Hannibal's head. It's the only plausible explanation for his death, because there is no way his husband would have lost against Jack if it had been a physical fight. He’s not quite able to stifle a sob from escaping. “Why couldn’t you have just left us alone?”  
  
"Will, you need help. You're not thinking clearly. Please, put the weapon down before you hurt yourself or anyone else," Jack reasons.  
  
With guns aimed at him in all directions, Will knows his best bet to get out of this alive and search for his children another day is to surrender, but the part of him that’s hurting, feeling so much pain he wants to drop and never wake up, that wants to spite Jack and look into his eyes, see the horror in them as he rams the scissors straight through Freddie’s throat and feel _victorious,_ the bloodthirsty base part of him is steadily taking control _._

Will’s hand moves even before it fully takes consent from his brain, instinct taking over. He hears Jack give the order to shoot and yet Will feels no fear. He just wants the pain to stop. He looks forward to the darkness, the permanent kind he hopes so he can be reunited with his husband. In the afterlife. Hell. It doesn’t matter as long as they’re together again. And if he drags another soul with him then he can say the moment of his death hasn’t been entirely pointless.

“Will.”

The empath drops the scissors upon hearing the voice, opening wide, shock-filled eyes he doesn’t remember closing to the familiar and beloved sight of his husband’s approaching form, heart in his throat. Hannibal’s wearing his usual fare of expensive and obnoxious three piece suit, down to the paisley patterned tie and polished shoes. His hair is gelled to perfection, reminiscent of date nights and visits to operas whether it be for simple leisure or a hunt.

He’s not entirely aware of Freddie making a break for it from his slack grip nor for the sudden sting of a needle jamming into his shoulder after he’s tackled to the ground. All he knows is that his husband is alive and breathing and looking so goddamn good, he finds himself wanting to jump him despite the circumstances, no matter how inappropriate.

“Please do be careful with him. He is injured.”

Eyes solely on Hannibal’s strong frame, dark blue gaze seeking his husband’s own maroon one, Will’s robbed of the chance to look into those sorely missed eyes when one of the orderlies steps up to Hannibal and effectively puts a stop in his intended approach.

Through the relieved tears, Will’s teeth are bared into a snarl.

“Dr. Lecter, the patient is dangerous. It would be best for you to stay with Agent Crawford. We were told even sedated he can still be a threat.”

“Will is my friend.” Hannibal answers as if that’s the answer to everything and an all-free pass to Will Graham, the slightest downturn of thin pouting lips showing his displeasure. Even so, the orderly is stone cold in his instructions and directs Hannibal away from Will. _Rude_.

Wait. No, no, no. Where is he going? He can’t let him out of his sight. Not again. He just found him.

“Hannibal! Hannibal!” Will cries out, panic in the whites of his eyes, sounding so distressed and desperate as he struggles on the ground. He’s there, Will can see him but why can’t he still _sense_ him? What’s going on? Hannibal thankfully turns and makes a single step forward despite the hand on his chest.

“My patient is showing severe signs of distress, please let me attend to him,” Hannibal presses.

“Let me go, damn you!” Will growls, a snap of teeth, no stronger than a pup play-biting with how weak he’s gotten and yet, “Hannibal!” he cries out again, fresh tears stinging his eyes. Oh god, there’s nothing inside him, the space that Hannibal occupies is still painfully hollow. What is happening to him, to them?

“Move, please. Let me look at him.”

“Dr. Lecter, he’s-”

“My patient. And thus is still my responsibility.”

He’s being moved and then Will’s head is being cradled in strong, deft, intimately familiar hands. Looking up, he finally sees himself reflected in his husband’s eyes.

“Will, you need to take deep breaths, you’re hyperventilating. There, I have you.”

Will’s arms spring forth, reaching up to wind fingers in the soft fabric of Hannibal’s suit - _god how did he manage to get himself one_ \- hands pressing and prodding and stroking from his chest to neck to face then back again, half-lidded gaze taking in what it can, making sure that he’s really solid, that he’s real. Will presses his face against Hannibal’s chest and listens for a heartbeat.

Will chokes on a barrage of hacking sobs, sheer relief flooding his chest, and just weeps. He pulls Hannibal close, closer, closest that he can, as if he’s trying to compensate for the absence of their connection by physically melding their skin together until they are one being.

 “Will?” comes Hannibal’s soft, concerned inquiry. "Talk to me."

“You’re here. You’re here. I thought I lost you but you’re here now. Everything’s gonna be okay,” Will mumbles against his neck, shuddering, shaky breaths leaving trembling lips. “Please, don’t scare me like that again. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I love you so much.”

The relief and happiness coursing through his system is so overpowering that Will completely misses the very strange fact that no one is treating his husband as the convicted serial killer that he is, or that he doesn’t notice the tightening of Hannibal’s shoulders after his relieved mutterings, or the intake of breath before he’s suddenly held tight as if it’s the first time Will ever told him, _I love you._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To anyone wondering when the switch actually took place, in case it wasn't clear. Remember that weird ass fivesome they got going in Nakachoko? Yeah, before that. Sorry Margot, know you had plans that night but this Will ain't gonna be your baby daddy. Margot being there that night saved Will's life though and even managed to cockblock HanniBloom. *cackles* 
> 
> So uhh, would love to hear your thoughts. :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks much for my beta victorine! This thing is partly beta'd so any mistakes are my own.

Will's half-lidded gaze shifts from person to person, wary and untrusting. His arms wind tighter around Hannibal, teeth bared, a low rumble in his throat. In that moment, he sounds much like his beloved strays, growling at anything and anyone he deems a threat. The orderlies try to pry him off of Hannibal, yet despite his drugged state, it takes a great amount of effort to untangle him from the smothering embrace.  
  
It's only when Hannibal tells Will they are there to help, that it’s alright, he’s not going anywhere, as he roves gentle fingers through Will’s damp hair and tenderly strokes his pallid cheeks, that the empath finally shows the first sign of cooperation.  
  
They place Will on a stretcher, but the sudden jostling causes him to abruptly let go of Hannibal’s hand. Will yelps, panicked. He twists in place, good arm reaching toward his husband with what limited strength he has left, and is only able to calm down once the doctor has their fingers clasped together again.  
  
"It's alright. I'm here, Will," Hannibal says, smiling reassuringly down at the glassy-eyed empath. He walks by Will’s side, holding their joined hands with his left one, his tall gait hunched over to accommodate Will's height while lying down, as they carry him to the waiting ambulance van.  
  
"Don't let go," Will pleads, face crumpling, exhaustion lining the shadows under his eyes.  
  
"I’m not leaving your side,” Hannibal says, “but you should rest, darling boy. You've had an exciting day. I promise to be here when you next awaken."  
  
Will shakes his head, squeezing Hannibal's hand as if it's vital to constantly check that Hannibal's solid in his grip, fearful that if he slips through his grasp, he'll disappear. "Just found you. Can't-can’t let you out of my sight,” he says, then asks, faint. “Hannibal?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Why can't I _feel_ you? What’s happening to us?”  
  
A small frown creases Hannibal's forehead before he replies, reaching down to wipe a thin sheen of sweat on Will’s brow, "Your questions will have to wait, dear Will. Your health is of utmost importance. What you did today was needlessly reckless," Hannibal tells him, near chiding and Will can't help but feel that his husband’s evading the question on purpose.  
  
Will stays silent, trusts that Hannibal knows best and has to physically restrain himself from asking about their children's whereabouts on the off chance no one yet knows about them, careful of prying ears from the people nearby. He sees Freddie Lounds in his periphery, being tended to and given first aid by one of the hospital personnel while Jack Crawford stands in front of her, looking for all the world like the proverbial deathbringer. He hears Jack accuse Freddie of stalking Will and that she should _be damn thankful a nick to the throat’s all you got. You do not antagonize someone under suicide watch_ as if Will gave him the permission to be the defender of his mental health.

Will frowns, annoyed by the notion that everyone seems to think he tried to off himself, dubious looking wrist injury notwithstanding.

How is Jack simply standing there though, he can’t help but wonder, yelling at a reporter when he and Hannibal are out in the open? He turns his head to look around him, a struggle in the simple act, and frowns, even more confused at what he’s seeing. Is he awake? Or is he in a drug-induced dream where no one seems to give a damn that the Ripper is in their midst? Even as he thinks of it, he knows it can’t be true. He may be pumped full of sedatives, but he still has enough presence of mind to tell the difference between a dream and the waking world. All he’s experienced from the moment he woke up has felt painfully, glaringly real.

He’s pushed inside the back of the ambulance, the afternoon sky replaced by the dirty white color of the van’s roof. Hannibal climbs aboard and sits beside Will, never letting go of his hand, which Will is immensely grateful for as he’s starting to lose feeling in the limb. He’s about to whisper, ask what’s going on, how come no one’s arresting them yet when one of the orderlies, the rude, authoritative one that Will would love to gut, breezes in and takes the seat next to Hannibal, followed by a nurse, one he hasn’t seen before.

“Doctor Lecter, we will need to put him back in restraints,” the nurse - Steve, according to his name tag - tells Hannibal, not a shred of awareness in his face that he’s talking to the infamous Chesapeake Ripper. “He’s been volatile and prone to violent outbursts. Tried to attack Agent Crawford earlier and Miss Lounds, well, you saw how that went. It’s standard protocol, you understand? For his safety and for those around him.”

Will makes a pitiful sound, mentally cursing the effects of unwanted sedation, a slow shake of his head all he’s able to do. Bond or not, Hannibal’s always been able to read Will like a paperback novel however, and he watches relieved when Hannibal refuses.

“There will be none of that,” Hannibal declares, rubbing the back of Will’s hand tenderly, consoling him like he would their Micah when agitated. If only he wasn’t currently a useless sack of flesh and bones, Will would rather bring their joined hands to his mouth, brush his lips against the ridges of Hannibal’s knuckles before pressing the soft skin of his palm against a cheek.

“Restraints will only further anger him and you will again be looking at another escape attempt on your hands,” Hannibal points out, and before anything can be said, he firmly shoots down any argument. “Mister Graham is my patient, but more importantly, he is my friend. It was a miscalculation to leave him alone this morning but I am here now and I will personally make certain he is well looked after at all times. Please, leave the restraints for someone who truly deserves it.”

Will frowns. What is this about being Hannibal’s patient? It’s just like what Lounds told him earlier, before the lies concerning his husband and daughter came out of her mouth. He’s missing something obviously, but he hasn’t a clue as to what and it’s starting to aggravate him.

Will loses track of any words exchanged after that, or if there were any words exchanged at all. Maintaining focus and keeping up with the conversation happening in front of him has become a trying ordeal. Soon, he’s coming in and out of consciousness, only hearing bits and pieces on their short trip back to the hospital up until he’s admitted back to a private room.

Hannibal’s physical presence, being the first thing he sees every time awareness comes back to him - smiling, touching him, saying his name, letting Will know he is there when he opens his eyes - calms him before any sense of panic begins to take root in his chest.

Will has a vague recollection of being fed, Hannibal spouting his usual pretentious nonsense whenever introducing any homemade dish. He apologizes for leaving, with Alana Bloom’s name on his tongue, explaining how he had to send her back to Quantico for her teaching post that morning, before driving back to Baltimore so he could prepare Will’s meal.

Will’s pretty sure, through the haze of the drugs, that he threatened to gut Alana if Hannibal made the same mistake of leaving Will for her or anyone else again.

“Did Abigail and Micah make it?” Will asks, propped against a stack of fluffy pillows and high as a kite.

“They’re safe, Will,” Hannibal replies without missing a beat and Will feels a load come off his shoulders. He smiles lazily at Hannibal, fingers reaching out to cup both his husband’s cheeks, thumb brushing over Hannibal’s lower lip, indulgent, affectionate.

“Thank you. I was so worried,” Will kisses him then, a quick and soft press of lips, too lethargic to deepen it any further and has to regretfully pull away when Hannibal slips him tongue, when it was becoming difficult to regulate his breathing.

There’s a memory of being assisted out of his stolen hospital scrubs, feeling a caress along the jagged scar tissue on his abdomen from when Jame Gumb gutted him, and would have died if it were not for Hannibal. He finds it somewhat odd, that Hannibal should ask where he got it from when he’d been there, and even took a knife to the shoulder to save Will from further harm.

“Our first kill together?” Hannibal asks in a whisper, rapt wonder in the deep husk of his voice.

“Yes,” Will answers, a small smile flitting across his face as Hannibal places a comforting hand along his throat, purrs at the grounding sensation. “The first of many,” he sighs, drowsy. “It was beautiful.”

There were others as well, words filtering through the haze in his mind, information that doesn’t match with his world view, faces that he doesn’t know visiting, the mention of his old house in Wolf Trap and his dogs. That at least, Will has to admit, can only be a positive. The possibility of seeing his pack again, despite the fact that his known reality is of only having Winston and Buster in France will always be welcome.

He thinks he saw Jack and Hannibal at one point, standing and conversing by his hospital room door, amicable, like friends, expressing mutual concern for Will. It was such a bizarre sight. If he had the strength, he would have shouted at Hannibal to run, or disembowel Jack where he stood, but all he managed was a weak croak of his husband’s name before the lights turned out again.

Then there was talk about breaking him, of a Randall Tier having been the last straw; this he heard from Jack during one of his visits, sitting by Will’s bedside as Will feigned sleep. Worried, self-blaming Jack who seemed to think it was his fault that Will tried to kill himself.

 _I didn’t try to kill myself_ , Will huffs, inwardly rolling his eyes. It was an unfortunate wound born of reckless confidence. A part of him wants to clarify that bit of misinformation but decides against it fairly quick. He doesn’t understand, of course, why Jack would even feel remotely responsible, but if he’s feeling guilt over it, Will’s not about to take him out of his misery.

A day or three pass and they finally ease Will off the sedatives. With Hannibal always in his sights, he hadn’t had any reason to lash out, and there have been no leather restraints so he has been fairly calm, just tired.

Today, he’s staring somberly at his hospital room door, clear-headed for the first time in a while. Will’s thoughts are on his family, his children, his husband, the one who is no doubt going out of his mind, wracked with worry while searching for Will this very minute.

Because he still has no idea how can such a thing be possible, but after hours of heavy consideration, Will’s convinced that the Hannibal who has been attending to his needs for the past however many hours is definitely not _his_. He’s not the Hannibal Lecter he married and, even without the very telling absence of a wedding ring on the man’s finger, or drugs to impair his mind, Will’s always known his husband inside and out.

Will intimately knows every minute twitch, every shrewd, calculating purse to that mouth, knows the fake smiles from the genuine ones. Even without the bond, Will still has far too many mirror neurons making rapid-fire connections in his brain; couple that with the years he’d spent married to Hannibal, and it had become as easy as breathing to read his emotions by simply looking into his eyes, tracking the microscopic changes in the color of his irises. Will knows when he’s telling the truth or when he’s lying, and that man, the one that has been wearing Hannibal’s face, has been lying from day one.

Oh, he’s not lying where his feelings are concerned; Will can read him like an open book, can tell he genuinely cares what happens to him, he’d even go as far as say he’s in love, but not exactly aware of it, with barely concealed signs of obsession. Although in retrospect, maybe saying he’s been lying is not entirely accurate. Hannibal simply doesn’t bother correcting Will’s drugged mutterings, and during the few times he’s lucid enough to ask the important pressing questions, Hannibal simply shushes him, telling Will that he will have his answers in due time. After the first two instances when he got nowhere trying to get a straight answer from Hannibal, adding to the growing awareness that the things happening around him just don’t fucking add up to the things he knows, he held his tongue.

There’s constant wonder in this Hannibal’s gaze, from a threat of a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth to a kind of heat that Will’s all too familiar with burning in his eyes whenever Will makes mention of killing people he finds irritating - the orderly, Freddie Lounds, Jack - as if Will’s simply talking about the weather. He made an offhand comment about Nurse Steak Tartare once and Hannibal looked ready to pounce him.

Now that the shock has worn off and the chemicals mucking up his ability to think past immediate needs no longer have any hold on him, things have started to clear. Not that it’s helped: if anything, Will feels more lost, a sense of helplessness beating him down as he tries to figure out a fix for his situation and comes up with squat.

One thing is for certain though: even if Will doesn’t have a single clue where to start, he at least knows the merit of keeping Jack Crawford on his good side and having his husband’s counterpart close by while he’s in this - wherever this place is. If he’s anything like his Hannibal, and going by Will’s recollections of the past few days he is, this Hannibal should have figured out by now that Will is not exactly who everyone thinks him to be.

The doorknob turns and Will closes his eyes, his go-to reaction whenever his privacy is intruded upon.

If it’s Hannibal, he can simply pretend to have just woken up. He may not be his husband but they sure share the same taste, from the fancy three-piece suits down to the astronomically expensive aftershave. So Will knows it's him even with eyes closed. The only difference, is that with this Hannibal, Will once smelled a sweet, flowery scent clinging to his clothes, one that later he was able to pin down to a certain Doctor Bloom.

He’s not usually the jealous type, but having noticed a fading love bite decorating Hannibal’s neck, and then smelling some woman’s perfume on him had Will stamping down rather explosive murderous impulses. He's not Hannibal yes, but they're of identical physical traits that send clear-cut signals to his brain, feeding the possessive part of him, as well as the part that’s hurting for being away from his husband, that no one fucking touches what was his and gets away without at least missing a kidney.

Upon realization that the perfume belonged to Alana during her first and only visit, Will was already well on his way detailing the stages of her murder before he caught himself, reminded that this was not his world, universe, alternate dimension? - now there’s something he didn’t think he’d ever say - and it’s none of his business who this Hannibal sleeps with.

Still didn’t stop him from fantasizing torture on her.

There’s a gentle shake on his shoulder, a familiar scent - sans Bloom’s this time, thank fuck - invading his space, followed by the deep rumble of Hannibal’s voice saying his name. He makes a show of groaning in his sleep and opens his eyes. Will slowly squints up at Hannibal, looking bedraggled, a small furrow on his forehead.

“Good morning, Will,” Hannibal smiles down at him and Will’s lips curve into the expected sleepy smile.

“Hey.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” Will answers faintly, when in truth he’s practically vibrating in his skin to get the fuck out of there. He’s had enough of being looked at like an exhibit in an art show, the ugly piece that people pretend to understand but couldn’t actually care less what it represents. “Still kinda feeling... not all here.”

Hannibal reaches down to brush his curls. “Still to be expected, I’m afraid. You’ve been continuously sedated for a long period of time,” he says. Will tilts his head toward the foot of the bed where the hospital’s resident psychiatrist, one who Hannibal tells him specializes in suicide after-care trauma, is watching the exchange with an annoyingly exaggerated kind smile on her face.

“How are you doing today, Mr. Graham? Good, I hope.”

The woman, a Doctor Hillside, with her dark hair cascading down her shoulders and dimples dotting both cheeks, somewhat reminds him of Alana and that in itself just makes her potential prey. Will can be petty when operating on jealousy, no matter how unfounded.

“I’ve been better,” Will croaks, then, looking back at Hannibal, he adds with a pleading expression on his face, “I just want to go home to my dogs.”

“And you will. I am sure they have missed you as much as you’ve missed them, Mr. Graham,” Hillside chirps in uninvited and despite Will’s annoyance at her seeming exuberance, he has to fight off a grin when he catches a barely there tick to Hannibal’s jaw. 

“You mean, I’m getting discharged?” Will asks.

“Yes, of course,” she replies with a smile. “Doctor Lecter is still your official therapist and your emergency contact. He deemed it best for you to be surrounded by your furry companions while recovering, and I must say I agree with him. You’ve been a model patient Will, can I call you Will?” Will nods, because why the hell not? “and I wouldn’t want to detain you here any more than I have to. Doctor Lecter’s signed the waiver for your release under the condition that you will be in his care for at least the next two weeks so he may keep track of your progress and continue to attend to your needs.”

Because of course, he tried to kill himself: it’s now the general consensus and he’s not bothered enough by it to correct them. It’s only to be expected that they’d need to continue monitoring him and what better way than to have a reputable psychiatrist and a personal friend be there to keep a close eye for any possible relapse?

If only they knew they were basically throwing Will to the wolves. Good thing Will’s a wolf in his own right.

Will glances at Lecter, their eyes meeting and Will can’t help but give in to the urge of interlocking their fingers and bringing them to his lips. He’s grateful. Lecter - as he’s decided to call him, easier to compartmentalize in his head that way - may have basically manipulated the situation to his advantage, ensuring that Will was to be tied to him twenty-four seven, but it’s not really something he minds. What matters is he’s going to finally be rid of the hospital room’s dreadful walls.

“Thank you,” Will says, then laughs, a delighted sound escaping his chest at the thought of his pack, missing Lecter’s reply in his sudden excitement. Would they all be the same as his own had been? Or would he be seeing new faces in their numbers? How many does other him even have? He can’t wait to meet them.

“Will?” Lecter prods with a curious smile.

“Sorry, just thinking about my dogs,” Will replies with a grin, another quiet chuckle coming out of him at seeing the self-satisfied smile on Lecter’s face, as if he’s saying, “I did that, I made him laugh.” Will finds it sweet.

He has no complaint with how things are progressing. Being with Hannibal’s counterpart is like a balm to the gaping wound throbbing inside Will from his sudden absence. At least this way, he can make certain that Alana is not getting within kissing distance of Lecter whenever they are together. Will’s not about to suffer the indignity of watching Hannibal’s doppelganger make out with someone else while he’s around.

“Now, I just have a couple more questions to ask, and then you’re free to go,” Hillside says, tactful enough to not make a comment about the exchange that could be construed in the wrong way. What Will did isn’t exactly something a patient does to their therapist. Most would call it unethical. Either way, Will is more than ready and just needs to be out of there as soon as he can.

 

* * *

 

Lecter prepares Will’s belongings with little fanfare.

He picks up the hospital issued amenities first: the remains of a tube of toothpaste, toothbrush, a bar of cheap soap that he tosses into the pile like it’s personally offended him, a bottle of hand sanitizer, and a small bath towel. He shoves these things inside a small black plastic bag, never to see the light of day again. Then he moves to bundle up his personal care products that he brought with him specifically for Will’s use, costing no doubt at least a thousand dollars combined.

It amuses Will, that as early as his first night in the hospital, Lecter was already not-so-subtly effectuating a dependency on him. It only recently dawned on Will why he never actually stopped getting a whiff of his husband’s scent. He’d been smelling Lecter’s products and by extension Lecter himself on his own body, which each time had brought forth a sense of comfort in Will at the familiarity, a solace in an otherwise confusing world. Hannibal is already all of that and more of course, but Lecter doesn’t know that.

Despite how Lecter most assuredly only had Will use his products for his own gain, so he can condition Will into connecting his scent with something that’s cozy and warm and good, he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless.

Will doesn’t talk much, still under pretense of being victim to the lingering effects of sedation. He merely makes a face, a moment’s hesitation, wondering if it would be considered cheating, when Lecter helps him out of his hospital gown and into a clean, fresh set of clothes. There’s nothing on his body that Lecter hasn’t seen. Back when he thought he was with Hannibal and drugged to the gills, he recalls being washed, familiar hands in intimate places. He only later found out it was Lecter assisting him in the small private bathroom when he couldn’t so much as hold his head up for longer than five seconds.

“Ready to go?” Lecter asks him, sat by the edge of his bed, placing Will’s leg on the mattress after he is done putting on the empath’s socks. The Hannibal-like move, care and dedication in the simplest of gestures whenever he attends to Will has him blinking back tears. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet since the revelation that turned his world upside-down and already he’s missing Hannibal exceedingly, like echoes of excruciating pain from a severed limb.

“Will?” Lecter asks him, pushing a hand through his hair before settling to cradle his face. “What's on your mind?”

Will shakes his head, doesn’t trust himself to speak without bursting into tears and bawling like an infant. Instead, he settles for pushing forward, wrapping both arms around his husband’s double and closing his eyes. Hannibal may be away but for now, he tells himself that he can have this small measure of comfort.

Lecter tightens the embrace, his long fingers rubbing Will’s back in soothing circles, lips warm against the cool skin of Will’s neck. They stay like that for how long Will’s not sure, simply content with holding on and being held. But then, he catches movement skirting the fringes of his sight. Will frowns and it takes him approximately three seconds to realize that none other than Alana Bloom is standing outside his slightly ajar hospital room door, confused, wide gaze fixed on them.

Will’s vindictive side flares up like fireworks during the Fourth of July. How can he possibly pass up such a golden opportunity? Will doesn’t entirely understand yet what the deal is with his counterpart and the good doctor, but it’s obvious he has strong feelings for the other Will. It’d be such a shame to let that go to waste. Besides, he’s the one that currently has to live in this reality, pretend to be their Will Graham and he sure as hell won’t tolerate playing second fiddle to Alana.

Plan taking shape in Will’s mind, slowly, deliberately, he extricates himself from the comforting embrace but not with the intention of pulling away. Their foreheads rest against each other, faces so close they’re almost sharing the same breath. Will allows a hesitant, shy smile to grace his features, fingers treading a sensuous slide from Lecter’s broad back, up his strong shoulders and down the firm planes of his chest.

“Hannibal,” Will whispers, a low moan slipping past his parted lips when he feels Lecter’s long fingers creep up his shirt and skim along the ridges of his spine. He licks his lips, following the way Lecter’s pupils dilate, eyes tracking the soft glide of Will’s tongue across his bottom lip before he presses in.

Their lips meet and everything falls away. Will ceases to think, initial plans of spiteful retribution cast to the wayside, lost to the sorely missed sensation of his husband’s large hands on him, groping, caressing;  the mouth moving hungrily against his own, the tongue twining intimately with his. Hannibal kisses just like he kills, passionate, with single-minded intent, determined to make Will a writhing, moaning mess in his arms.

Will doesn’t remember moving and only realizes belatedly that he’s already astride Hannibal’s lap, their bodies gyrating to a sensuous rhythm, mouth firmly fused in a heated and lust-filled daze. The fingers of his injured hand rake through Hannibal’s perfectly-combed hair, messing up the soft strands, right hand cupping Hannibal’s cheeks, lovingly stroking the delicate skin underneath his eyes, the same sanguine gaze that sees Will, completely, wholly and loves him all the more for the darkness Hannibal finds in their depths.

“My beautiful, remarkable boy,” Hannibal says in a breathless murmur, reverent, like a prayer, before dissolving into a fluttery moan when Will ducks his head and sinks his teeth into his neck, directly over the fading bruise.

“Mine,” Will growls against the skin of Hannibal’s throat. The coppery sweet taste of his husband's blood bursts on his tongue and Will groans, euphoric in the face of his claim and the low, pleased sigh Hannibal makes against him. Will stiffens however in the next instant, rudely brought back to the present when there’s a knock on the door, sudden and piercing, before Doctor Hillside’s voice is heard, telling them how there’s one more document that she missed to have Doctor Lecter sign for Will’s release papers, and can she please come in?

Will pulls away in haste as if burned, hand quickly coming up to help put pressure on Hannibal’s - no, Lecter, goddammit he was making out with Lecter, how did he fucking forget? - sluggishly bleeding wound. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t -”

“It’s alright, Will. There is no need to apologize,” Lecter assures him with a smile, simply pulling out the pocket square from his breast pocket to press against his throat. He doesn’t push Will, doesn’t do anything else other than rise to his feet, walking over and telling Doctor Hillside through the partially opened door that _Will has dozed off the poor thing, he needs to rest for a while longer. Can you please hand over the papers?_

Will lets himself drop against the bed, hand over his face, and tongue skimming the entirety of his mouth, tasting the salty-sweet tang of Lecter’s blood. It tastes just like Hannibal’s and Will has to fight off a shiver.

Lecter closes and locks the door, a small, pleased smile curving the corner of his lips as he stalks back toward Will. The empath makes space for him as Lecter sits by the edge, and feels a blush creep up his cheeks as a dark maroon gaze roams the length of Will’s body.

Lecter's smile turns into a smirk, “Now, where were we?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, okay so my current word count is the devil. Creepy. LOL! I am compelled to write a few paragraphs in.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm curious. Did everybody actually saw the picture I posted of Micah in the first chapter? If not, please click back to it! <3
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to my murder wifey slash beta reader slash therapist cheerleader victorine for being just so freaking awesome and overall amazing in her dealings with this sad little snowflake. Love you so much hon! Hope you like the rest of what you haven't beta'd yet. Hope it doesn't fail so bad. *flinches* Dx *squeezes*

It's not something Will thought he'd ever consciously have to avoid but now that he's found himself in the face of Lecter's interest, Will has to physically hold himself back from getting up into the doctor's lap and picking up where they left off.  
  
He knows he shouldn't be entertaining this - whatever it is that's happening between him and Lecter - but what his eyes are seeing and what he knows in his heart, that this man is not Hannibal, even when he looks and feels just like him, is a study in contradiction. It's making him dizzy and nauseous, a cumbersome equivalent to an emotional whiplash.  
  
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that," Will says in a low murmur, gaze fixed on the blood staining Lecter's neck.  
  
"What did I say about apologizing, dear boy?"  
  
"That I shouldn't?" Will says with a sigh and has to close his eyes, feeling a little overwhelmed when Lecter reaches for him and lovingly nuzzles the back of Will's hand.  
  
He feels the bed dip, a familiar weight moving closer into his space. Will's eyes flutter open and it's to the scent and feel of Lecter's warmth. He tenses. "What are you doing?"  
  
Lecter doesn't answer, only smiles and tilts his chin. Will's mouth parts, an automatic bodily response to Hannibal's nearness and his affections, his spine-tingling kisses that Will has always been powerless against.  
  
What he's doing is cheating no matter what angle he looks at it, yet Will can't help but be drawn to the doctor. He's frankly disappointed at himself for how easy it is to reciprocate.  
  
Eventually, Will has to pull away. He puts a hand against Lecter's chest and licks his lips. Their foreheads touch and he inhales deep, weary and heartsick. He can't do this right now, be easily swept away by the taste of Lecter's kisses when he has his husband and children waiting for him back home.  
  
"Are we really doing this, Doctor Lecter?" Will mutters, face joining the hand he has propped against the other man, voice sounding a bit muffled by the fabric of his overcoat. It feels too much like hiding, needy in its execution but he can't find it in himself to give a shit. Will's tired of the pretense and decides now is as good a time as any to put a stop to this charade.  
  
Silence fills the spaces between them until Lecter replies with a quiet, "Very well," mouth pressing to the crown of Will's head instead, "I believe I promised you an explanation once you were well enough to talk." Lecter says as he pulls back an inch. He doesn't let go, merely holds Will kindly by his arms. "Are you well enough?"  
  
"Oh, trust me, I am well enough.” Will exhales, “Thinking is all I've been doing from the moment I woke up."  
  
"You were awake when we came in?"  
  
"Yes," Will replies with an insouciant shrug. His brows knit together when he asks, "When did you know?"  
  
"The night I received the call about your suicide attempt," Lecter says and glances at the window outside. He entwines elegant fingers over one folded knee, ponderous, looking at a point in the distance that Will can't see. "Will Graham may be a lot of things but he is not one to take such a cowardly way out. Not so far into the stages of his becoming."  
  
Will raises an eyebrow, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. He appreciates Lecter making no play at ambiguous bullshit and choosing to simply be forthright with him.  
  
"Just like that?"  
  
"No," Lecter says, some emotion flashing in his eyes, too fast for Will to give a name to, gone as soon as it came.  
  
"Would you care to share with the class?"  
  
Lecter looks back to him, and takes Will's hand in his own again, so very careful, gentle, as he cradles Will's injured wrist. Next, he strokes the tan line peeking out of the dressing around Will's ring finger, gaze soft. "There was a moment that I had thought you came from a different time."  
  
Will gives out a half-laugh, finding the idea absurd only to balk because his current predicament is really no better. He looks down at their joined hands then back at the other man, resolutely ignoring the sudden tightness in his chest at the sight of his ringless finger. "Time travel? Really?"  
  
"You've aged, Will." Lecter pouts, in the same way Hannibal does when he feels he's being made fun of and Will finds it just as cute. He has a feeling Lecter would deny being cute to his dying breath just as fiercely as his husband does.

A few times Will had woken up to Lecter's stroking fingers, brown-red gaze studying him, cataloging the lines on Will's face, every scar mapping his body. If there was anyone that would notice the differences, it'd be him. 

"Sorry, that was mean," Will soothes. He covers the hand Lecter has over his bandaged one and caresses it absently with his thumb. "Although, I would say you were half-right. I did come from a few years in the future."  
  
Lecter looks at him expectantly and Will sees nothing wrong in telling. He guesses the fact that the first time he noticed Lecter's own minute differences from Hannibal, to which Will reacted by demanding what year it was, before subsequently resembling a spooked deer, helped make Lecter come to the wrong conclusion. "The year's 2016."  
  
"Four years from now," Lecter acknowledges, then adds with a wistful twist to his mouth, "Fantastical as it may be, I had hoped my initial theory to be correct. I thought I was seeing a glimpse of a life we would have together. It was exhilarating to know that you chose me over Uncle Jack."  
  
Will swallows, horribly reminded of when he very nearly chose Jack and his fraying sense of morality over Hannibal, the other half of his dark soul. He can't even begin to imagine what life would have been like without his family.  
  
"But… you realized something was off," Will says, knowing all too well the way Hannibal, or Lecter in this case, can see the smallest of details that don't quite add up with the rest of the picture he'd drawn. "Something, that everyone else would easily dismiss and blame on the trauma."  
  
"Yes. Margot Verger visited on the second day of your hospitalization and you hadn't an idea of who she was. Curious, I asked you, in one of your more lucid moments, if you knew of Randall Tier, and you denied ever knowing such a name. Then and there I knew, though I still have yet to understand how such a thing came about, that you were not the Will Graham I've come to consider a friend."  
  
Will grimaces. It's stupid but Will feels bad for Lecter. What a mindfuck that would have been to suddenly be faced with the culmination of the things you've dreamed about only for it to be taken away in the next instant, and realizing it was never really yours to begin with. God, that would suck.  
  
"Sorry to disappoint. Why didn't you say anything?"  
  
"I wanted to, but I was curious what would happen."  
  
Will smiles at the straightforward reasoning, yet another trait that Hannibal and Lecter share. "You and your curiosity Doctor Lecter, it's going to get you killed one day."  
  
"Please, call me Hannibal. I believe we are past such dull formalities," Lecter entreats, combing fingers through Will's hair. Will hates having to deny him this one small thing.  
  
"Hannibal is my husband," Will counters with an apologetic tilt to his head, even as he shivers in the same breath and has to keep down a purr from rumbling up his chest at Lecter's tender touch. "And you are not, Doctor Lecter."  
  
"I am not asking to replace him in your life, Will."  
  
"I know," Will agrees. He pulls back a little, needing to set the record straight. "It's beneath you to make such a request. But I love my husband, and the... intimacy that we've shared already feels too much like betrayal. Calling out his name while addressing you would be nothing but willful ignorance and I can't do that to him. Not when we've stopped circling around each other. No more pretending." Will trails off and looks at Lecter somberly, voice dipping a register. "Can I count on you to be honest with me, Doctor Lecter?"  
  
Lecter holds onto his stoic calm, gaze unreadable if it were anyone else looking into those dark brown eyes. Will can see the barest hint of hesitation, the calculating slant to his lower lip before melting into polite acceptance.  
  
"Would you return the courtesy?"  
  
Leaning against the comfort of the pillows propped against his back, Will replies, "I could have chosen to continue playing the part of the confused patient, doctor. Yet here we are, having what most would call a heart to heart." He pauses and offers a smile that promises suffering should Lecter decide to betray Will's trust. "You tell me."

 

* * *

 

The door to his room opens and Will looks up. He smiles at Lecter and gives a quick glance at the nurse trailing after him. Despite how much the thought of getting wheeled out of the hospital like an invalid grates on Will's nerves, he agreed to keep up the appearance of being the frail, suicidal patient.  
  
Freddie Lounds has it out for him, had published an article about Will's supposed psychotic meltdown a few days back. Will understands Lecter's concern. Not only is the photo used on the article a very unflattering picture of when he was having a panic attack, but Freddie was also ruthless in citing how Will was a danger not only to himself, but especially to those around him, and that she herself had experienced firsthand just how dangerous a man like Will Graham can be. Small mercies, that she didn't print anything of his outburst about Abigail and Hannibal being his husband and daughter. Will suspects Jack has something to do with her silence. He’d been quite incensed the last time he saw them together.  
  
"Can I borrow this?" Will asks Lecter as he scrolls through TattleCrime's articles on the doctor's tablet, noticing archived dates on the left side of the page. Not that Will doesn't trust Lecter to provide him any information he'll need if he asks, but he's simply curious as to what Lounds, and by extension her readers and this world, think of the other Will.  
  
"Of course, darling boy, I don’t see why not," Lecter answers with an amicable head tilt, moving to the side as he makes room for the wheelchair toting nurse. Will glares at the doctor. They've been over this. He's forty-two years old. That hardly makes him a boy, but Lecter doesn't seem to care about Will's feelings on the matter. Just as well: at least that way, it's easier to separate the smarmy jerk from his husband.  
  
The nurse wheels him out with Lecter walking beside him, clutching in one hand the brown leather satchel containing Will’s belongings, coat draped over his other arm. Will holds his bandaged limb against his chest and distracts himself with counting the tiles they pass on the floor.  
  
Lecter owns a Bentley, just like Hannibal, down to the make and model, it’s hardly a surprise. Will is helped into the passenger seat and the tension lining his shoulders melts off his frame, having hated every second he had to endure the eyes of strangers. Lecter’s scent hits his nose, eliciting a low, pleased sigh as soon as the doctor covers his slumped form with his cashmere coat. Lecter shuts the car door.  
  
Will watches through the car window as Lecter walks around to the driver's side. Will buckles himself in, then turns to face Lecter as he gets in the car. Will's head makes a soft thump sound against the seat's headrest, gaze trained on him.

The engine starts and for a while Will simply spends his time alternating between staring not-longingly at Lecter and the passing scenery. He’s dozing off when it occurs to Will.  
  
"Why did you keep kissing me?" Will asks, voice hushed as if they're sharing a secret. Judging by the way Lecter's fingers curl around the steering wheel in a sudden white-knuckled grip, Will has a feeling that he's about to hear one.  
  
"Did you really have to ask, Will?"  
  
"I might have an idea, but I wanted to hear it from you."  
  
Lecter lets out a quiet laugh, "Curiosity, is that not what killed the cat?"  
  
"Don't worry about me, Doctor Lecter. I'm a dog person," Will replies, deliberately obtuse.  
  
"Really, Will. That is unbecoming of you," Lecter chides, to which Will chooses to answer with a slow blink.  
  
“Very well,” Lecter capitulates, side-glancing at Will. “I have never been one to deny myself with anything that is freely given and you presented such irresistible temptation. I was also not about to turn you away when you clearly needed me, especially when you still didn’t know what was happening,”

Will snorts, “Well aren’t you the good Samaritan.”

“Doing otherwise would have been terribly rude of me, Will.”

“What about earlier? You could have stopped it.”

“It would be remiss of me to refuse your advances when you so boldly climbed into my lap and staked your claim."  
  
"I didn't actually climb into your lap," Will clarifies with a pout, then backtracks with a frown. "Wait, staked my claim?"  
  
"Alana was watching through the door," Lecter adds, and Will's suddenly overcome by the urge to wipe the smirk off that delectable mouth with his teeth. "I knew she was standing outside, her perfume is quite lovely though a little bit strong. I would have preferred for her to not have caught us in such a manner, but I admit I was quite taken with your actions."  
  
Will scowls, "And here I thought I was being extra devious."  
  
"You were, and it was admirable," Lecter praises. "But tell me, Will, why the hostility toward Alana?"  
  
"Oh, don't give me that clueless bullshit. You know why. I'm married to a version of you. I smelled her perfume on your clothes and saw a fading mark on your neck, and came to the jarring conclusion that you were sleeping with her," Will grumbles, huffing in annoyance. "It's only natural to feel a little bit…” grimly, he adds, “territorial.”  
  
Lecter hums, and Will follows with his eyes the movement of the doctor’s hand as he fingers the small punctured wound along his throat from Will’s biting kiss, effectively erasing all traces of Alana. Will feels his cheeks burn through the quiet satisfaction of seeing Lecter so obviously marked by him.

"As we have already determined, I am not your husband, Will. It is within my right to be in relations with anyone whom I find to be pleasant company, is it not?"  
  
Will glares, then sighs grudgingly, burrowing his face further into the comforting sensation of the fabric looped around his shoulders. "Will you stop seeing her if I ask you to?"  
  
"Does seeing us together make you uncomfortable?"  
  
"No," Will says truthfully, face set in stone, "I feel murderous. You're right, you're not my Hannibal but either way I still want to pull Alana's tongue through her teeth every time I think of her being intimate with you."  
  
"Oh, my dear Will," Lecter practically gushes in the face of Will's jealousy. Will tries not to be too ticked off.  
  
Lecter reaches out and presses Will's knuckles against his lips. Will's seeing a pattern here. The hand holding and the hand kissing seem to be a universal Hannibal Lecter gesture at comfort. He's just as affectionate as Hannibal, who is always ready to make him feel better whenever he feels rotten, before asking Will who put him in such a foul mood so they could hunt the sorry bastard together.  
  
Fuck. Will's eyes sting again. He really misses Hannibal.  
  
"Are you still going to see her after… this?" Will asks, good hand gesturing to the general proximity of the two of them.  
  
Lecter pulls back and slowly lets his hand go. If he notices the wetness in Will's eyes he doesn't comment on it. "It would be unwise to do so and quite unfair to Alana. She is one of the few people in my life I consider a good friend. She at least deserves some measure of honesty from me. And I find myself in the unique position of not wanting to upset you further, my dear," Lecter reveals with a doting smile. "I do wish for my head to stay firmly attached to the rest of me."  
  
"Har har," Will deadpans, wrinkling his nose in an attempt to stifle a lopsided smile from forming. "Such a comedian."  
  
"You are quite beautifully bloodthirsty," Lecter says and Will wants to squeeze his handsome face. "I see it in your eyes every time you so flippantly make mention of ending a life."  
  
"Yeah, well, spending four years married to a cannibalistic serial killer who so enthusiastically encourages any and all dark impulses does that to you," Will says with an answering smirk, then adds bitingly, refusing to be so easily waylaid from the honest answer he wants to hear, "and you’re not being entirely truthful with me, Doctor Lecter."  
  
"Not quite," Lecter agrees, a smile threatening to curve the corners of his lips. "I must apologize if my curiosity over your feelings toward Alana caused a misdirection."  
  
Will's brow furrows, "How was the other Will toward her?"  
  
"Will has long since looked at Alana as a means of stability. He once said he's always found Alana very kissable."  
  
Unbidden, Will's eyes fall on Lecter's lips and he has to quickly avert his gaze, "They were close then?"  
  
"Very much so. Will once drove an hour in the snow to my house in Baltimore to tell me he kissed her."  
  
That catches Will's attention. Was there a possibility the other Will may have unconsciously felt attracted to Lecter? He has to admit to himself that before Hannibal, Will wasn't exactly the sharpest when it came to romance-centered feelings. "That didn't seem odd to you?"  
  
"I did find his compulsion to make me aware of his relations with Alana surprising, though not entirely unexpected. I was Will's therapist, he was clutching for stability from me after she politely turned down his affections."  
  
Will can almost see how that scene played out. Though he never had any feelings for his version of Alana, he can hear her excuses in his mind's eye, the same song and dance of how it would be unethical, how her feelings for Will as a therapist will always interfere with her feelings for him as a lover. It’s so painfully vapid and hilariously predictable.  
  
"She was more of an acquaintance, colleagues where I come from," Will shares, "I was closer to Jack than I was with her." He regards Lecter with a cool stare. “Well?”  
  
“Do you know what an imago is, Will?" Lecter asks, and Will nearly berates him for another attempt at misdirection when the answer to Lecter's question dawns on Will.  
  
He smiles, "An imago is an image of a loved one, buried in the unconscious, carried with us all our lives," he replies warmly, accepting Lecter's answer as the truth he'd seen reflected in his actions involving Will. “It’s an ideal.”

“The concept of an ideal.” Lecter supplies.

"I may not be your… Will, but you see in me an ideal, of what you would wish for him to be should he finally decide to stop suppressing his darker nature. You couldn’t help it if you tried, you had to know how it would feel like.”  
  
"Yes," Lecter reluctantly agrees. “To pretend even for just a moment that I was with Will after his becoming...”

To see and be seen completely, recognized and accepted for all that you are, no matter how undesirable in the eyes of a moral-driven world, is a human being's natural thirst to be sated. And Will and Hannibal know of it all too well.

"How long have you known?" Will asks softly, filling up the loaded silence that Lecter leaves in his wake.  
  
A faint twitch to Lecter’s mouth, "That I love him?"  
  
Will nods, and this time he’s the one to reach out to hold Lecter's hand, encourages him to give voice to a truth that has been evident from the moment Will opened his eyes.  
  
"I would say it was the moment he brought me Randall Tier's corpse, finally crossing the line to stand by my side, but I'm afraid it truly started, since the first time I laid eyes on him."

 

* * *

 

The rest of the drive back to Will's farm is spent engaged in pleasant small talk.  
  
Now that Will's marriage and Lecter's feelings for the other Will are a known truth between them, clear boundaries have been set in place. They mutually understand that it would be exceedingly bad form to continue the intimacy they've shared, knowing full well the man opposite them is not the one they'd rather be with.  
  
It's going to be hard, painfully more so for Will for being a married man, with needs that only a husband can fulfill. He will be forced to refrain from doing anything intimate even when all of him is vibrating to be as intimate as he possibly can with Hannibal. Only he’s stuck with Lecter instead.    
  
He's not attracted to him in the romantic sense, this Will knows deep inside him with veracious certainty. His every thought and every action regarding Lecter so far have all originated from an intense longing for a husband who isn't there. Will thinks that he may have been too hasty in telling Lecter to keep his hands where Will can see them, however. Will finds he's not entirely opposed to friendly affection from Lecter. It's only fair since he's also not above exploiting and using him as a security blanket as long as they don't cross any lines.  
  
It may seem a little desperate and plenty cruel on his part, but separation from Hannibal was something that didn't just happen. Not with how their bond worked. Even with physical distance, they had always been inside each other's heads, inside each other's skin, in the very blood coursing through their veins. Not a second went by that they did not know where the other was, and Will's still reeling from the empty aching void inside him where Hannibal is supposed to always be.  
  
If he is to turn away from Lecter's touch as well, the only thing making it possible for him to grin and bear every little thing that has gone wrong in his world, Will feels that he's honestly going to go batshit crazy. How long he can avert another meltdown before his worries over his husband, Micah and Abigail spill over, Will's not sure. But he can choose to not needlessly suffer alone.

 

* * *

 

The car makes a turn and Will's flooded with a sudden heady sense of nostalgia the second he sees the reasonably-sized farm house that he'd spent a decade living in before running away with Hannibal. He's a bit awestruck. Will never thought he'd get to set foot in his old home again.  
  
He catches sight of the dogs, lying down by the front porch dutifully guarding the house, and for a moment, Will can't do nothing but stare, at a loss for words. He'd been resigned, accepted that he was never going to see them again. Yet here he is, drinking in the sight of them all together.  
  
"Will? Are you crying?" Lecter asks carefully as he shifts the car to park and sets the brake in place.  
  
Will remembers himself and blinks, hastily wiping at his face as he turns away from Lecter. "Shut up, I'm not."  
  
"You need not hide from me, Will," Lecter says and reaches for his face so they can see eye to eye. "You miss them."  
  
There's no use trying to bottle up emotions when those eyes, so similar to Hannibal’s, are imploring Will to spill his guts out, offer up the hot, slippery slide of his insides with a worshipful smile on his lips.  
  
He takes a calming breath. "When Hannibal and I ran away, we were only able to bring Buster and Winston with us."  
  
"To Italy, I may have heard you mention it while under the influence of Zolpidem."  
  
Will nods. It's ironic that the topic of his dogs would be the conversation starter for the decision that changed Will's life.  
  
"It wasn't something we preferred but we had to choose who to bring since we were working on a time constraint. It wasn't going to be long before Jack was hot on our trail."  
  
"Will?" Lecter asks and Will can almost hear the gears in his mind connecting to create a full picture, "The first day you woke up, the nurses said you tried to attack Jack."  
  
"Yes," Will replies, swallowing audibly, distancing himself from the pain he felt when he thought Hannibal was gone. "When Jack came to see me and Hannibal wasn't there, I was sure he was dead. I had to kill Jack where he stood."  
  
Lecter merely nods, egging him to go on. So Will does.  
  
"We were running from the authorities. Hannibal was already incarcerated when we met," Will declares with a finality in his tone as he looks at Lecter square in the eye, daring him to make any remarks. When no reaction is forthcoming, he continues. "I was working for the FBI and was sent to interview him, to ask for his input in creating a profile for a serial killer that had been killing women and taking their skin. I faced him knowing perfectly well who he was, and I found him… interesting, to say the least. The more we talked, the more I understood him, just as he understood me. To make a long story short and at the expense of sounding cliche, we fell in love. And I helped stage his escape."  
  
It didn't exactly go that way, of course, but how does Will even begin to try to explain the connection he and Hannibal share? Frankly, he does not even want to. His and Hannibal's bond is private, something sacred, and should stay firmly with family. Telling Lecter that Will helped his counterpart escape solely for the reason of falling in love simplifies things.  
  
Silence is the only response Will gets after his reveal and for a second he thinks he might have broken him. It's not every day that a man as confident and self-assured as Hannibal Lecter, who prides himself on being able to manipulate any situation in his favor hears that in another world, he’d been unwittingly apprehended for his crimes. Then there's the fact that a version of his beloved Will chose to be with him even when he already knew, since their first meeting, what he was, what he'd done and what he's capable of; accepted and loved him anyway, strongly enough that Will did not care how he was basically unleashing a monster on an unsuspecting flock.  
  
Will completely understands if Lecter’s gonna need a few seconds to process that.  
  
"Who was it, Will?" Lecter asks, seemingly coming out of his reverie, his gaze clearing and expression morphing into the world's most composed looking shark after scenting blood in the water. "The one that confined your darling husband to a prison cell?"  
  
"Miriam Lass," Will answers with a raised brow, "do you have any of those around here?"  
  
The shark bares its razor sharp teeth. "As a matter of fact, we do," Lecter says and Will watches with a dark gleam in his eyes as Lecter's gaze turns calculating. After all, a name was all Hannibal ever needed too, to get the results he needed. "Will you tell me more about the circumstances that led to his incarceration?"  
  
"Of course. I'd gladly answer any question you might have," Will says with a smirk before his expression sombers and he cups Lecter's face in his hands, stormy-blue gaze resolute. "Hey," Will starts. Hannibal was already robbed of his freedom before Will even met him. It was something he couldn't change. But he'd be damned if Lecter, who is not only his husband's counterpart but is quickly becoming a good friend of Will's - is to be robbed in the same way. "As long as I'm here, I'm going to make sure what happened to my husband doesn't happen to you."  
  
Lecter replies by covering Will's hand over his cheek and pressing his mouth against his palm before smiling fondly back at him. "You truly are a wonder to behold, William."  
  
"Yeah, well…" Will chuckles lightheartedly and winks at him. "Just don't start falling in love with me or anything, Doctor Lecter."  
  
"Wouldn’t dream of it, my dear. You know my heart belongs to another."  
  
"Good. Just so we're clear."  
  
"Of course."

 

* * *

 

"Did you take care of them while I was in the hospital?"

Because Will does remember bits and pieces of the night he woke up in his old bathroom, he knows the dogs crowded his prone form, offering what comfort they could by staying close, nosing and licking at his face, whimpering, no doubt begging Will to stay awake. God, they must have been so worried.  
  
"Yes," Lecter replies, "I figured it was imperative to leave them in a boarding kennel while you were recuperating. The establishment came highly recommended. They were well looked after."  
  
"Thank you," Will says, immensely grateful, and before he can think much on it, leans over to kiss Lecter on the cheek. Will's out of the car before Lecter can do anything other than stare at Will's back looking adorably confused as Will runs, laughing from the sheer joy of seeing his pack.  
  
The dogs lift their heads, attention drawn, fluffy ears perking up in unison at the sight of Will, before swiftly getting up on their legs, barking happily and rushing toward him.  
  
Will grunts, suddenly finding himself on his back when his Molosser-Labrador mix, Johann, knocks him over and sits on his stomach before heartily licking his face. Will couldn't have suppressed the unmanly delighted giggle that came out of his mouth even if his life depended on it.  
  
He's surrounded in the next breath, smothered and licked from face to neck and back again. He pulls himself upright, welcomes every wet, cold kiss with a huge smile, happiness threatening to split his face in two. Will shivers from the snow seeping into his clothes but he ignores the chill in favor of running his fingers all over soft, generous amounts of fur.  
  
Buster climbs his chest, tail wagging so hard it’s a wonder he doesn’t just fly off. Will does not in fact squeal but it was a close thing. "Jesus, look at you, so excited to see me," Will gushes. "You missed daddy, huh? You little troublemaker."  
  
The years spent with Hannibal had turned his own version of Buster into an entitled little sod, looking at them like they’re all beneath him, that it’s so refreshing to see him as he was, before Hannibal’s influence rotted his little doggy brain.  
  
Will gives him a thorough rubdown while Winston and his Border Collie, Leia, seem intent to claim each of Will's ears for their own with how they're fervently licking. "That tickles, you guys." He chuckles, halfheartedly pulling away only to sag back against Johann's bulk.  
  
"Will, come up from there, you're going to a catch a cold," Lecter says as soon as he's within a few feet of Will, looking austere and no doubt highly disappointed at Will's complete disregard for his coat that's now being used as a makeshift blanket by both Mira and Theodore.  
  
"Oh, chill Doctor Lecter, we're just playing." Will dismisses him, unrepentant, and proceeds to make gushing noises at his dogs.  
  
Lecter’s sigh is longsufferingly audible but there is no hiding the indulgent and tender look in his eyes. “Very well. I will be inside should you have a need of me,” he says, and makes for the house. Will calls after him grinning, taking one of Caesar's paws to wave Lecter off before burying his face into his soft, bushy fur.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. Real life got in the way and for a while there it seemed crap just kept pouring in. I was more than halfway done with the chapter when life happened so I couldn't finish and upload it. Again, so sorry for the long wait. But it's here now. 
> 
> Thanks a million to my wifey victorine for always being so amazing in her beta work and working with me in figuring out what best course to take with this fic. I always have different variations of how a scene is to turn out and she helps in sifting through what's good and what's garbage. Lol. Thank you so much hon. Any other mistakes are soley mine. 
> 
> Also a million thanks to Emily Elm for creating that freshmeatfriday post in tumblr. Imagine my surprise when the next time I log in I was tagged in a rec post for my first and so far only fic. Needless to say, I had to finish the chapter and here I am. This has been cut into two parts by the way. The murder husband dorks wouldn't listen to me. 
> 
> Yup, that's all for now. Hope you enjoy.

Ten minutes into alternating between cuddling and kissing and playing fetch with his pack, Will is given a concerned pause. Buster, his excitable Jack Terrier, just sprinted after a thrown branch only to come to a screeching halt outside the door of the shed situated a short distance away from the house.

Will watches as Buster's demeanor changes, turning fearful and timid when he'd been high-spirited mere seconds before. With ears laid tightly back against his head, Buster takes halting backward steps, like he's too afraid to make a sound. Will strides after the frightened dog in the thick snow, placing a gentle hand atop his downy fur as he goes down on one knee. Will feels the exact moment Buster shudders in his hold, letting out a faint whimper before jumping into his arms, and burrowing his head against the safety of the empath's chest.

"What's the matter, boy?" Will asks the spooked canine, looking suspiciously at the locked shed door. Carefully, he maneuvers Buster, pulling him away just enough to hold him by both sides of his face, big brown eyes meeting his. "What are you so scared about?"

He receives a pitiful whine and a lick to the cheek before Buster takes refuge against his chest again. Leia, his mixed Collie and the oldest of the lot sits beside Will and licks Buster sympathetically on his back. He glances around and finds the rest of the dogs milling anxiously about him, Mira going as far as taking a mouthful of Will's sleeves as the mixed Pug-Tzu tries to pull him from where he's stooped on his knees.

The concern turns to worry at seeing the pack clearly unsettled by whatever it is hidden behind the door. Will pulls himself upright, still holding Buster and walks back to the front of the house with the pack following each step, all the while rubbing Buster's body to soothe him. Will's fingernails catch on something beneath the fur. Buster lets out a pained whine, Will stilling mid stroke. He approaches the porch and takes a seat on the rocking chair. He places Buster on his lap and inspects the skin of his back, and goes rigid at what he sees.

He recalls Lecter mentioning Randall Tier attacking the other Will in his home and that one of the dogs had been hurt. Will remembers getting furious, then thinking good fucking riddance. Tier is dead, after his double killed the lesser predator for daring to hurt his family, his carcass brought to Lecter like a dog proudly offering a dead racoon still clutched in a blood soaked muzzle to its master. That or a twisted version of a courtship gift. He didn’t think to ask how long ago that had been. Clearly, not too long ago if Buster’s pained whine is anything to go by. Either way, Will looks to the shed and is hit with clarity as to what is behind the door.

"Stay here," he instructs the pack and walks to the side of the house where the potted plants are. If Graham 2.0 is anything like him - he lifts a pot, digs into the earth and smiles as he finds the keys he's looking for.

He goes down the few steps and makes his way toward the shed. He glances once to make sure the dogs stayed put only to find Winston and Johann shadowing his move. He halts, turns and points back to the house only to get a bark of refusal in return. Will sighs and can't help but feel his chest warm as he sees the rebellious tilt to their heads for what it is. The rest are huddled around Buster like his own personal security detail while the biggest ones in the pack guards Will, tagging along to danger, protective instincts on full display.

With a shake of his head, Will allows Winston and Johann to do as they please.

The smell of bleach hits Will's nose as he works on the lock, the same lingering scent left behind whenever he and Hannibal hunt, coming from the butchering that happens in the basement beneath the manor in France, or from the different properties they own under their other aliases. Something died here or was dragged here, enough blood on the floor to warrant the use of a cleaning agent. And if it is indeed Tier's body, Will's surprised the FBI haven’t arrested him yet. The shed is not exactly a fortress, easily accessible to anyone who so much as suspects Will Graham of having anything to do with this particular killer's death, if they should decide to snoop around or kick down the door.

He can easily picture Jack doing the latter.

It’s apparent that other him is not thinking as sharply as he ought to be. He admires the confidence but it's childishly reckless. Also, perfectionist that he is, how could Lecter allow such an oversight to happen? If he cared what happened to Will, he should have made sure there was no damning evidence lying around.

Or maybe he’s getting ahead of himself.

Will steps inside and sees a boat motor engine part lying in the corner, unfinished with signs of tinkering, along with numerous tools haphazardly surrounding it. His gaze roams and he feels unimpressed. Will thinks of his own shed and deduces he wasn't this much of a slob. He glances up and is met by the sight of a monstrosity dangling from the ceiling. He sighs and grunts in disappointment, hand over his head.

There's that evidence. Practically gift-wrapped. Something has to be done about that, and soon.

Winston and Johann bark, growls rumbling like thunder as they too catch sight of the armor, lethal fangs bared ferociously, saliva dripping. Will clucks his tongue, a sound emitting from his throat that is meant to soothe the agitated canines. It takes two more tries before the dogs get anywhere near calm. "Go back to your brothers and sisters," Will tells them the moment their fur is no longer raised, no longer poised for a fight. "I'll be fine. Go," he adds sharply, whistling a command that has them reluctantly walking outside, tails hanging low after sending their alpha one last questioning look.

He ventures inside the shed, spots the freezer and discovers what he suspected all along.

 

* * *

 

Will enters the house with Buster in his arms and the dogs congregated about his legs. He lets the Jack Terrier down and whistles, signaling the pack to lie down, and they do so obediently, ambling towards the unlit fireplace where they plop on their bellies. It continues to amaze him that the counterparts to his beloved strays listen to the same set of commands.

He hangs Lecter's coat by the door, on the rack that looks out of place from the rest of the house's decor. The empath shrugs, dismissing the peculiarity and begins dusting his clothes of dog hair and snow. There's an aroma in the air, something light and woody with hints of citrus. Will hears the sound of chopping and of something simmering on the stove, and makes for the kitchen. He takes a sniff and scents a fragrance of fennel. Will's stomach gives an impatient growl when he gets a whiff of scallops. God, it smells heavenly.

He makes minimal sound as he walks in, under no illusion that Lecter didn't notice his presence the moment he crossed the living room. He sees Lecter then, head down and focused on his task, body halfway facing the entrance to the kitchen.

All thought of Randall Tier’s frozen bits hidden in the shed’s freezer momentarily melts away from his mind.

The vision in front of him is arresting in its familiarity, like it was years ago when Hannibal constantly visited him through the bond while incarcerated, such that he half expects to see the man dressed in his usual gray prison jumpsuit. Will smiles fond, from the memory of Hannibal's distaste at the state of his kitchen their first night, telling him, then later more or less begging Will to buy cookware that Hannibal could actually use that won't risk Will of contracting some debilitating, bacteria-infested disease. Hannibal did always take pleasure in taking command of Will's kitchen whenever possible and Will gave in not too long after, helpless against the constant pouting.

The conversation with Hannibal at the nearest store selling kitchen amenities that he could find, where Will unthinkingly scared consumers as he appeared to talk and argue with himself over the practicality of spending such an exorbitant amount of money on a casserole, when he had a perfectly functioning one at home, will always be one of his fonder memories. By the looks of this kitchen, and the wares practically shining on the counter, as well as Lecter's familiarity with where everything seem to be located, Will suspects he's been in and out of this house for the past few days and has decided to upgrade the other Will's kitchen to a state that Lecter deems acceptable, while he can't be there to argue with him about how unnecessary it all is.

"So, come here often?" Will asks as he saunters in and leans a hip against the table, arms crossed against his chest and one fine eyebrow raised. "You seem awfully familiar, knowing your way around the kitchen, doc."

"William," Lecter says, head cocked, dark sanguine eyes brightening at the sight of him, but not bothering to grace Will's not-so-subtle prodding with an answer. "You're right on time my dear. I am nearly done."

Will lets out a breath, stares lovingly yet longingly at the intimate sight of Hannibal in his element, gaze automatically drawn to the inviting curve of his full lips. He steps to the side and takes a quick perusal of the fridge and sees it fully stocked. Will looks over his shoulder and is met with Lecter's still smiling face. He closes the fridge and straightens up.

"You did the groceries?" He gets a nod in reply and after a miniscule amount of inner conflict over what he's about to do, Will winds his arms around the older man’s waist, chin resting on his shoulder. "Anything I can do to help?"

Will's breaking the no touching rule, but since Lecter doesn't seem to mind, barely tensing from the unexpected gesture before seemingly melting against Will's embrace, he decides, fuck it. And really, what's so wrong about a bit of affectionate touching between friends?

Lecter turns his head just so for Will to feel his warm breath against his cheek. He's suddenly hit with a strong sense of melancholia at the familiar pose they're creating. He closes his eyes and can almost see Abigail coming through the kitchen doors, Micah still half-asleep in her embrace as she makes a face, the smile playing the corners of her lips always betraying her supposed disgust at the public display of affection.

 _No kid wants to see their parents make out, dad,_ she always complained with an exaggeratedly pained laugh.

Will resolutely shakes the heaviness in his heart, barely manages it.

"Set the table, if you would be so kind?"

It occurs to Will too late that unlike his husband, Lecter probably won't appreciate Will clinging to him like a limpet as he navigates around his staked domain. In any case, he's more than glad to see to the table. Will nods and is just about to turn for the task when his gaze catches on Lecter's forearms when he looks down and closer. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, as he's always wont to do when cooking in his suits, but the pale, unblemished skin Will expected to see is now marred by a line of multiple ugly stitches.

Will's hackles rise. First Buster, now this.

"What the hell is that?" Will exclaims and turns Lecter around. He grabs him by the wrists, putting a stop to the doctor's ministrations. Will holds both limbs to his face, and inspects the sloppy, though methodical wound. Lecter wouldn't have done this to himself, that Will knows without a doubt, impeccably vain and self-preserving man that he is, much like Hannibal.

"Ah yes, that," Lecter says and tries to pull away but Will holds on, steadfast and firm, stormy blue eyes drilling holes in Lecter's forehead, a demand for an explanation.

"This looks like it could have been fatal, Hannibal," the empath grits out, not entirely aware of the slip, his jaw clenching, anger bringing a flush to his cheeks. He swallows, helpless against the growing rage building inside him despite the doctor's soothing voice. He can't stand the thought, the audacity of anyone marking his husband, counterpart, whatever, in such a permanent, owning way. The fucker that did this better have died in the most painful way possible or so help him, Will is going to tear the bastard apart himself.

"Will, look at me," Lecter says, and if he hadn't just been chopping a moment ago, fingers smelling of spices and herbs, Will knows he'd be cupping his face, an attempt to comfort. The empath looks up and their eyes meet. Lecter leans, forehead to forehead and whispers, "Oh darling boy, there is no need to be upset. This happened a while ago. I am alright."

Will closes his eyes, takes a calming breath and opens them again, hisses, "Who the fuck did this to you?"

"Will, it's nothing to be—"

"Tell me," Will presses hotly. He's so angry that he's grinding his molars, near trembling with the effort to not strike whatever is nearest him. Lecter pulls back and sighs in fake reluctance, one that Will sees as clear as bloodstain but is too preoccupied with needing the name to Lecter's assailant to feel any affront from the subtle manipulation.

"If you must know. It was you."

The answer stops Will cold, dread filling his stomach. “What?” he asks, indignant. Without warning, Freddie Lounds’ words, her accusation of the things Lecter had done to the other Will and what that Will had done in return begin ricocheting in his head.

"It was only by proxy and perfectly justified. I hurt you-" the doctor pauses, considers and continues, Will’s heart twisting painfully at recalling what Freddie Lounds had to say about Abigail’s counterpart. "I hurt my Will and he found a way to hurt me. Consider it an act of reciprocity," Lecter says with a somber air, and if what Will’s been told happened was true, he and Lecter are going to have fucking words.

Will’s surprised that he’s not exploding in righteous anger from the jarring revelation of Abigail Hobbs’ death. But upon further inspection, finds he couldn’t if he tried. Knowing exactly how Hannibal's thought process works, having front row seats to seeing the world through his eyes like they are his own, makes it near impossible to fault him for his actions or dismiss his brand of logic.

Will understands his counterpart’s need to hurt Lecter for what was done to Abigail if he loved her even a quarter of how much he loves his own version of her. Yes, frighteningly so, that Will could easily see himself stringing Lecter up if he’d been the one framed for her murder. He has first hand experience of the kind of hopeless desperation the other Will must have felt, alongside the furious bite of betrayal. And yet, he also has a take on Lecter’s point of view, and finds, again, that he can’t blame him for what he’s done to ensure that he remained a free man. Seeing Hannibal behind his glass cage, restrained and domesticated looked wrong. He didn’t belong there. Just as Lecter wouldn’t belong confined in a jail cell.

Lecter's not Hannibal, and it can be argued that Will's insight into the doctor is singularly coming from what he knows of his husband and of the experiences they’ve shared, but Will believes he knows him all the same.

From what he read in TattleCrime while he was waiting to be discharged, there was an article citing the Chesapeake Ripper’s claiming of Will Graham’s supposed kills as the reason for his release. He can see an impression of the truth by what he knows as facts. Lecter might have initially intended for Will to be his scapegoat should he make the connection that Lecter was the Ripper, a very likely possibility with his work for the FBI, but he didn’t think Lecter would have preferred that outcome for Will.

Even when Lecter made certain that Will’s instability would work against him, so that should he swear up and down that Lecter was the Ripper, no one would believe his claims, it would not have been a favorable scenario.

He knows of Hannibal's loneliness, despite how he used to act as if he was above such a pedestrian emotion, Will could see how alone he felt for his uniqueness. He was one of a kind. No one could match him. Until he met Will and from then on never stopped short of showing Will just how much he is loved, treasured and worshipped.

Like him, Lecter would have found someone who he believed could fully understand him and see his kills for the masterpieces that they really are. But the other Graham would have been adamant in clinging to his fraying morals, refusing to entertain the side of him that sees the beauty in the way the Ripper elevates his victims, just like he once had. Lecter would have done his utmost to help him see and accept the truth of who he truly was. After all, isn't that what friendship is for?

The incarceration would have only showed his double how easily his so-called friends would abandon him if they knew of the darkness he has to constantly keep controlled under the surface. Lecter knew that and used it to his advantage as he fostered codependency, alienating Will from people not worthy of his brilliance. Being the selfish, increasingly obsessed, loveable bastard that he is, Lecter would have made sure Will wouldn't have anything left in his life that wasn't the doctor or the family he intended to carve for them in the world.

No. Lecter couldn't have killed Abigail, Will knows with sudden stone cold certainty. It doesn't add up.

He's missing something.

His Abigail had been accessory to her biological father's crimes. Jack had suspected her but it was around the same time Gumb began his kills and a senator's daughter was involved, the pressure from the media too overwhelming and so Abigail was left alone, perceived as a victim. But what if in this world, Jack kept pushing for Abigail as a criminal and the only way to protect her was to make her death as public as it could be? Her supposed death would give her a fresh start as it took the FBI off Lecter's scent in the same breath. It was for her own good. She _needed_ to disappear. Now the other Will is out, no doubt angry at Jack's people for eagerly condemning him for crimes he didn't commit; with fresh blood on his hands. Lecter should already be re-introducing the idea of family to Will, but something is stopping him.

Goddamn! It’s a fucking test.

"Did you have a Matthew Brown in your world, Will?"

Will stares uncomprehending for a second, resurfacing to reality like a drowning man.

"Umm, the orderly?" he clarifies, squinting as he does, struggling for even ground as he tries to process what he's discovered, how he'd been immersed in profiling his and Hannibal's counterparts. He forces himself to focus on Lecter's question. He's not one to ask or care for any hospital staff, but it had been inevitable to know of Barney and Brown's names in passing when he'd started visiting Hannibal at the BSHCI during the profiling of Buffalo Bill.

A few months after their escape, Hannibal told him how he had grown quite fond of Brown and Barney during his stay. Apparently, Brown in particular found his husband fascinating, and had a tendency to talk nonsense about hawks. It still grates on his nerves, the thought that if the bond didn’t happen as it did, Hannibal would have made his escape with the help of Brown. The fact that Will had unwittingly taken the name Matthew, chosen by Hannibal as his first alias, remains to irritate him on a daily basis.

"Ahh, so he exists. And you know of him."

"Brown was one of the orderlies assigned to Hannibal. Night watch." Will's eyes narrow, feeling a spike of self-recrimination, not for the first time, for not bothering to put a face to the name. "Lounds said I tried to have you killed. Did - it was him, wasn’t it?"

"Yes."

Will looks down at the healing stitches, tracing each raised scar tissue gently, carefully. The irony that in this world, Matthew Brown, a man for whom Will has always felt a sick sense of jealousy, for having caught Hannibal’s attention no matter how short lived, was fascinated enough by his double's incarcerated ass to readily go after Lecter's neck by his orders is not lost on him.

The pendulum swings again, coming to him as easy as breathing and it doesn’t take long before Will is seeing the nightmare for what it is and promptly feels sick to his stomach. "He tried to bleed you out."

"Mr. Brown tried. He was quite enamored with what he perceived to be Will's dark, twisting labyrinth of a mind and, I believe, wanted to impress him. Will played him like a finely tuned instrument," Lecter says with barely concealed pride. He pulls away with little to no effort to sprinkle the spices he'd prepared for the meal appetizingly sizzling by the stove. He adjusts the heat and rinses his hands by the sink all the while looking like a world renowned dancer as he moves about the small space, grace in every flex of muscle and tendon.

Will runs a hand across his face, teeth gritted, annoyed. Of course Lecter would look at Will's capability for dark things, manipulation and murder more so than most, as something to be proud of, even if the attempt had been on his own life. "I ought to give my counterpart a piece of my mind."

"William." Lecter glides back to him, blood-brown gaze soft and doting. It would be a shame, such a waste if this world's Will Graham didn’t get to experience this tender side of the Ripper for himself. "I do not blame your counterpart for his actions. Not when it resulted in such exquisite metamorphoses."

Well, he can’t really argue with that.

Even Will had been betrayed by Hannibal, had literally enacted murders using Will’s body without his consent and yet, they found a way to move past it, be stronger on the other side, two sad sacks of dark impulses who thought they’d never find someone to see and accept them completely as they were, only to be proven wonderfully wrong. Their life in France, their counterparts could have that as well, even better, without the constant pressure of making sure the authorities remained oblivious to their presence. If other him could just give Lecter a chance, he knows it’d be the best decision he’d ever make.

But didn't he already cross that line? Even if it can be construed as self-defence at first, he didn't actually have to mutilate Tier and chop him into chunks of meat ready to be cooked. That could only mean that his counterpart had forgiven Lecter for what he’s done, understood and accepted that no one could get him the way Lecter did and decided to finally join him. Whether it be a thirst for companionship. Friendship. Love. He is not certain what his double’s driving force is but it’s already proving to be a good start. That his daughter's double is actually alive will only serve to drive the point home.

"Is Brown dead at least?" Will asks, expectant. Lecter goes silent again, a measly three seconds’ worth of quiet but it's enough to let Will know that Brown is very much alive.

"No. He is housed in The Ohio Asylum for The Criminally Insane. I've been meaning to give him a visit."

Will mentally jots down 'Kill Brown and make sure he watches as I feed him his own intestines' on his to-do list. And if Will going for Matthew’s head is mainly derived from an unrequited hate due to unsavory associations that the orderly's counterpart had with Hannibal, well, he can hardly be blamed for his actions. If he’s still stuck in this world when that time comes of course. He really fucking hopes not though. He’d rather be home in the next breath if he could.

"Take me with you, if you do," Will says, a promise of pain glinting in his storm-blue eyes. He looks to the ugly marks on Lecter's forearm and feels a renewed spike of possessiveness and protectiveness for this man that shares his husband's face. "And when we do, we're not taking trophies. We're not going to eat _vermin_ , Doctor Lecter. But what I do want is to see this bastard choke on his own flesh and blood before I watch the light leave his eyes," he says, voice dripping with burning contempt.

Lecter responds, looking positively enraptured. “If you so wish it, my dear.”

Will nods, then stares at him, the fire in his eyes simmering down to a warmth, only to fall straight to sub-zero coldness. "Now, about Abigail," he says, and the chillingly calm quality to his voice is all Hannibal. Will takes one step closer, fingers sliding up Lecter's chest before settling on his tie. “That was very rude of you to let other me think his daughter's dead, Doctor Lecter.” He tightens the knot enough to restrict airflow, watches with dark gratification as Lecter swallows, Adam's apple bobbing. “What’s to be done about that?”

 

* * *

 

The food is great, bay scallops with mushrooms, pepper and grilled Italian sausage - whether it's an actual Italian, Will's still 50/50 on that - served with a helping of herb butter sauce, complimented with an unassuming bottle of Pinot Noir, lightly chilled. Normally, Will would be nothing but praise for his husband or, as the case may be, for a version of his husband's cooking, especially since the meal was prepared with his fast recovery in mind to build up his strength, but after the things he'd heard come out of Lecter's mouth, he's too annoyed to bother feeding the man's already inflated ego.

Will spears a particularly enticing looking sausage like it's personally offended him.

"Are you imagining the sausage to be my neck, William?" He doesn't bother to answer, only glares at Lecter across the table and chews grumpily. There's a sigh, and the sound of cutlery kissing porcelain before Lecter speaks again. "Do you intend to give me the silent treatment for the whole duration of the meal?"

Will’s glare intensifies. If looks could kill, Lecter would be nothing but a puddle of blood on the floor.

"You know it had to be done."

Fork held in a white-knuckled grip as if ready to strike, Will finally bares his teeth and grits out, "You mutilated our daughter, Hannibal." For one hateful second, he pictures stabbing the man across him right in the eye. They stare at each other, time seemingly standing still until Will deflates. He hunches forward, elbows on the table, hiding his face behind his hands. "Shit. Sorry," he eventually says, letting out a heavy breath. "You're not - you didn't mutilate my Abigail, and it's none of my business what you do with your version of her."

"You feel strongly wronged for the mirror image of your daughter. I understand," Lecter soothes and reaches out to pry Will's fingers off the knife and fork in his grasp. He places both down on the table and tilts Will's chin, his dark gaze imploring. "Are you angry with me?"

Will takes a steadying breath, eyes closing at the tender touch, pretends that he's with Hannibal for a moment. "No," he says, sad gaze fluttering open. "I know what you did was for her own good, that it was in her best interest to disappear. But she already has to carry Hobbs' scar for the rest of her life, did you have to disfigure her?"

Another scar to add to an already abundant list, physical as well as emotional, and he detests the very thought of that far-from-innocent but sweet girl having to live with the constant reminder. His Abigail already hates having to see the scar Garrett left behind every time she sees her reflection in the mirror, he can just imagine her reaction if Hannibal introduced such a ludicrous idea of chopping off a part of her, claiming it was for her own safety. She's a survivor and would definitely try to stab Hannibal in the neck at least once and Will would be compelled to side with her, at least for the first five minutes.

"It was either that or her fingers. And I could not allow such an atrocity to happen. I have every intention to teach Abigail how to play the theremin and harpsichord once we are, all three of us away from this place."

Despite the sharp spike of irritation, Will can't help but thaw a little upon hearing the hopeful wonder in Lecter’s voice.

Will knows Lecter's not entirely sold on the other Graham choosing him over Jack yet. And rightly so. He has every reason to doubt the other Will's sincerity. After all, it was his masterful manipulation that caused Will's counterpart to end up in a jail cell with everyone questioning his mental state, a situation that he's dreaded all his life coming true. Just because he understands why Lecter did what he did, doesn't mean he's not partially angry for what his less-stable twin had to go through. After the encephalitis - which his Hannibal chose to not be a dick about, thank fuck, telling Will that he was ill when his health seriously started to fail him, Hannibal's love weighing so much more than his damned curiosity and penchant for manipulation - Abigail, and the wrongful incarceration, it's inevitable for resentment to linger. Will knows that Lecter understands he went too far; that there's a chance his Will is going to sell him out to Jack or stab him in the back the moment he lets his guard down.

He could, of course, just outright tell the truth about Abigail, which would highly increase the chances of his double opening up to the idea of family, but Lecter's pride won't let him. If the other Will is to come with him, it has to be because of Lecter and not for anyone else. The egotistical, closeted, insecure asshole.

With a deep exhale, he lets his personal feelings for his daughter's doppelganger go. The girl is not his and Hannibal's. And as long as Lecter continues to protect her from the FBI's grubby clutches, that's all he really cares about. Though, he'd rather like to see her at least once while he's stuck in this place. 

"If your Abigail is anything like mine, you should be very proud. She's beautiful. Graceful. Ruthless,” Will says with pride, fingers closing around the stem of the wine glass as he scents it before taking a small sip, savoring the rich flavor as it bursts on his tongue. He puts the glass down and meets Lecter's riveted gaze. Will watches as those dark eyes follow the soft glide of his tongue over his bottom lip and his breath hitches.

He fidgets in his seat, stamping down the sudden flare of arousal for being so intensely watched. It’s really not fair that he’s seeing Hannibal’s face and can’t get intimate in all the ways he’d want to.

"I hope our Abigail will aspire to be as cunning and vicious as yours." Lecter says with a small smile, clearly finding Will's discomfort amusing as he offers up a toast. "To new beginnings."

"New beginnings," Will murmurs, toasting along as he mentally curses his body’s reactions.

Will's never been completely cut off from sex as he is now. Always attuned to Hannibal's desire as much as his own, they always, without fail, meet in between. It didn't always have to be physical either. Being intrinsically connected as they were, the merging of minds, fantasies and sensations shared is already a heady aphrodisiac and is just as gratifying and powerful as the physical release itself. Lecter's presence is both a balm to his heart and a source of frustration for his body.

But he's nothing but patient, Will tells himself. Had learned even more to be for all the years he'd taken up the knife with his husband.

Fishing required a certain measure of patience, but hunting took it to the next level. Impatience can make one sloppy, get someone with their sort of hobby killed; it's an important and crucial trait to keep certain urges in check while on a hunt. Of course, he has enough self-restraint to not let his libido overrule his brain. Will takes a breath, shakes off the desire to reach over and go down on the man opposite him and focuses on the offered sumptuous meal instead.

The conversation ceases, comfortable silence falling between them. He'd always loved it about Hannibal, his ability to read Will's preference for peace and quiet without needing to be told, which Lecter also seems to share. They eventually move towards the living room, wine glasses still in hand. Will's pleasantly buzzed. Good food and even better company and the cocktail of drugs no doubt still lingering in his system making him drowsy.

They take a seat on the living room couch, Will gravitating to and leaning against Lecter's side, cozily soaking up his warmth. He watches with a lazy smile the heartwarming scene his pack makes on the carpeted floor before his gaze darts toward the newly repaired window and mutters _asshole_ under his breath regarding Tier before taking another sip of wine.

Will sighs, tilts his head back just so and feels Lecter's lips nuzzling along his hairline, his steady breathing lightly ruffling the generous curls on Will's head as long, deft fingers stroke up and down the arm not currently pressed against Lecter's form. Once more, he's reminded that this man is not his Hannibal and is very soon caught in a web, a  looping and confusing cycle between happiness from what Lecter’s mere presence brings and debilitating depression about the reality that he has yet to come up with a plan for getting back home to his actual other half.

They'd talked about it, he and Lecter, when Will was in the hospital after they'd revealed what they knew of the other. Lecter had been greatly worried. He hadn’t shown it but years of perfecting that expressionless mask couldn't hide from Will how unsettled the man came to be over the words he'd given voice to. But it had to be addressed. He honestly has no idea if the other Will is even in his world. Logically, it would make the most sense with how he ended up here, but it's still speculation at best. And if by some miracle he figures out a way to return to his world, it doesn't ensure that his doppelganger would also return to this dimension.

One thing is for sure, however, this mess is tied to that young woman he tried to save. Jesus, what Hannibal must have felt the second the connection broke and he could no longer feel Will.

It doesn't seem like he can do much, or anything at all from this end, but Abigail had been there, and Will sincerely, dearly fucking hopes she made the smart move of not going after the woman, staying away from her reality-tearing hands, and phoned Hannibal instead at the earliest given opportunity; that they are currently working on a way of getting Will back to where he belongs.

Then there's Micah.

Will's been away from his son five days and counting. Micah's never been away from his side or his sights for longer than forty-eight hours. He swallows thickly, something like hopeless desperation and anger clawing at his insides as he imagines Micah crying his eyes out asking for his Dada and Will. Can't. Fucking. Get. To. Him.

"Lost in thought?"

Will struggles to center himself, slowly tilts his head up, throat tight. "Not lost. Just thinking. Wallowing."

"Will."

"I miss my family," Will reveals and takes a shuddering breath. He bites his lower lip enough to bleed and continues. "I miss my husband, my daughter." A pregnant pause. "My son."

"Micah?" Lecter asks and Will doesn't miss the barely-there hitch in his voice as he says the name.

It's very close to Mischa's name, being that he was named after her, Hannibal's dear late sister. And if Lecter's history went exactly as it did Hannibal's, Will understands why saying the name sounds as if it’s in prayer.

"Yes."

"Would you tell me about him?"

Will shakes his head. Doesn't think he can bear talking about his little boy with the possibility hanging over his head that he's never going to see him again.

"Don't dwell on the less than savory possibilities," Lecter whispers as if reading his mind, as if feeling Will’s emotions, and for one heart-stopping moment, he thinks the impossible before the gnawing emptiness inside him rears its ugly head in the open, reminding him that no, nothing is still right in his world. The same long, deft fingers rake through Will's hair, forehead resting against the warm skin of his nape. "You would want to hide but you need to fight the bleak, forlorn thoughts and focus on the beauty of reminiscing, the good memories you have of your child."

Will stays silent, doesn't say a word for a long while but Lecter remains a steady presence beside him, holding him close, comfortable and warm.

He opens a door in his memory palace.

Opens his eyes.

Will smiles a sad little smile when he sees Hannibal in the next breath, occupying the spot next to him on the bed, a one year old Micah in their midst fast asleep. Will feels heat gather behind his eyes as he reaches down and strokes his son's plump, high cheekbones. He looks up at Hannibal, sniffs and lets out a quiet half-laugh. "He looks so much like you," he says, and can't help but choke on a sob. "I miss you."

"Comes back to us, _mylimasis_." Hannibal says, the same sad gaze matching the empath's own.

"I'm trying, love." Will's eyes water, reaches out and kisses Hannibal passionately, fervently, wishing with all his heart that he's real. That he's truly back in France with his family.

Micah fusses between them, forcing his fathers to let each other go before looping chubby arms around Will's neck and settling against his chest. He mutters _Dada_ under his breath, unconsciously and effectively blocking Hannibal from going any further with Will. Merely a year old and already as possessive as his _tevas_.

Will decides to tell Lecter how Micah came into their lives, mindful in not mentioning their Sensate connection. Will still doesn't see the point of explaining it to the doctor.

It seems like it was only yesterday when Will had wanted to give Hannibal a family, back when Abigail hadn't yet decided to permanently come with them. The time they spent together during those first few months in Italy had been nothing but euphoric, their honeymoon phase so to speak, but there was always something missing.

The feeling only intensified when Abigail first visited, a short vacation she had to take in association with her studies. Then came the anniversary of Mischa’s death and Will finally realized what it was he needed to do.  
  
It took a long while, a lot of factors had to be considered if he was to have any hope of pulling his plan off. There’s the studying, searching for viable candidates, background checks, putting contingency plans in place and ensuring that Hannibal did not get suspicious to the point of ruining the surprise. A feat considering how insightful Hannibal was - but that only meant Will had to be ten times more careful. Six months in and he finally found the perfect donor, a Victoria Lambin of Italian descent that could pass up as Will’s sister, for his and Hannibal’s child.

It was vital that the donor share, if not the same, then close enough physical traits with Will. Hannibal was never short of marveling and waxing poetic about Will’s beauty and if Will had to give him a child, then he or she should resemble them both.

Just because Will couldn’t physically carry Hannibal’s offspring, didn’t mean he was willing to leave it lying down, to rob him of the chance to be a father. It was there every time he looked at Abigail, talked about Mischa; Hannibal’s longing to have a child with Will, one they could both love, nurture and protect.

It wasn’t all selfless intentions on Will’s part either. He wanted a child of his own as much as Hannibal does, maybe even more, to be able to settle down and have a family that did not consist of a well-meaning but drunkard father and a neglectful, heroin-addicted mother.  
  
It was easy enough to get the specimen from Hannibal with how frequently they got intimate. The hard and complicated part came in getting his chosen registered egg donor to cooperate. It would be all orchestrated as happenstance, a simple meeting in a bar where Will would act the depressed, slightly-drunk man who would unwittingly tell Victoria about his and his partner’s life story. Of two middle-aged men who wanted to have a family but his fussy partner did not want the anonymity that came with clinic donations, reasoning that not knowing who the eggs came from was risky and they couldn’t have a child coming out riddled with defects, condemning him or her to a hard life of ridicule from all the rude, insensitive people of the world. Stressing in particular how they did not have female relatives, and the few female friends they had did not want that kind of complication in their life.  
  
Will was able to create a strong connection with her after that meeting, bleeding heart that she was. They quickly became friends, Will’s empathy doing what it does best until she volunteered, deciding to help him out of his misery.

It was a trying time however, with Hannibal increasingly getting agitated by Will spending time with this supposed friend that Will refused to give the name to. Their connection served to make matters worse since Hannibal can sense Will’s emotions, feels the sudden burst of elation and guilt in equal parts whenever he leaves the house. At one point, Hannibal accused Will of having an affair which Will of course outright denied, then told Hannibal in no uncertain terms that if he couldn’t handle Will having a life outside of their little murder bubble then they might as well go their separate ways. He’d never seen overwhelming panic cross Hannibal’s face before, yet Hannibal did not waver.

That had been a tense couple of weeks. They did not talk, always made sure to avoid the other which proved to be it’s special form of torture, putting a massive strain on their connection. Will felt the most guilt for hiding such an important thing from Hannibal, but he already made up his mind to see it through. They could feel the other’s longing, the righteous anger, the sharp sense of betrayal and murderous impulse coming from Hannibal’s end that would only marginally simmer down after a solo hunt.

Several times, their eyes would meet across the room and both could read the other’s thoughts by that one look alone. Hannibal wanted to hurt Will for hurting him with his damned secrecy, as much as Will wanted to hurt him for not trusting him enough that he would never fucking cheat on him.

Eventually, their love for each other won out after they sat down and actually took the time to talk. Apologies were exchanged, Hannibal making it clear to Will that he’s not a prisoner, that they were equals in this relationship and as long as he remained true to what they have, then Will can keep his friend. There was still resentment there, and Will decided to give him some degree of the truth, assuring Hannibal that whatever it was he was doing now, it was all for him, for the family that they wanted to build and all he had to do was trust Will, and it was going to be worth it in the end.

Hannibal acquiesed, respecting Will’s wishes and their day to day life continued as if the argument never happened. Nobody had to get stabbed after all, much to Will’s relief.  
  
As soon as Will gained possession of what he needed from Victoria, he told Hannibal to pack, telling him that the first stage of his plan is complete and they had to relocate, right after telling Victoria some excuse about a family emergency, promising to keep in touch with her only to never see her again. They decided on Copenhagen as their next destination and Will did not waste time. He got right into arranging the legalities involved with the surrogacy, under a different alias naturally, nitpicking and ensuring that the actual woman that was to carry their baby to term passed all psycological tests. The child was his gift to Hannibal, the physical manifestation of Will's love and devotion to the man, only revealed once the surrogate was able to give birth and he was not about to have the surrogate change her mind in the end and fuck it up for him.   
  
After Will had made sure she was well looked after, constantly checking, providing for her needs, wiring money to ensure she lives comfortably during her pregnancy, Will’s meticulous planning finally bore fruit. At last, the fateful day came when Will arrived home, vibrating with excitement and giddy with happiness with the newly born baby boy nestled protectively in his arms.  
  
That Micah came into the world with the exact same shade of Will and his biological mother's eyes, blond curls crowning his head, with Hannibal’s distinct mouth, the shape of his nose, his round, plump face, young but undeniably still Hannibal was everything Will hoped for it to be.

 

* * *

 

Will’s eyes flutter open and for a second he feels displaced when he sees the unfamiliar image of a ceiling, before memories come rushing back and he has to squeeze his eyes shut, grit his teeth as he forces the tears back, valiantly trying to keep himself together.

He recalls his conversation with Lecter, recounting fondly about Micah's conception before apparently falling asleep. Will rubs the grit from his eyes and runs a tired hand over his face. He checks his surroundings and frowns at the now somewhat familiar walls.

Did Lecter carry him up the stairs to the second floor bedroom?

He turns in bed, sees a single white paper sitting on the nightstand and reaches out for it. He squints at Lecter’s neat calligraphy informing him that Margot’s brother had called and he had to regrettably leave, and if Will would be so kind to join him later for an evening meal. The dogs had also been taken by one of the boarding kennel’s personnel, sent to Lecter’s residence in Baltimore to stay for the duration of the two weeks time recommended Will also spend in the doctor’s company. Lecter says he need not worry, that he already made necessary adjustments to the house's sparse back lot in order to accomodate the pack.

Will makes a face, a tad annoyed that Lecter didn’t bother waking him up to at least inform him personally. His gaze travels to the lower part of the paper and he can’t help but grin foolishly at what is written there.

_You looked so beautifully peaceful, my dear. I did not have the heart to wake you. H.L._

“Bastard,” he mutters under his breath, heat rising in his cheeks as he hugs a lumpy pillow to his chest.

Will yawns, stretches and rises to his feet, sees a pair of black slacks, a dark gray suit jacket and a teal blue long-sleeved shirt hanging by the dresser. He looks to the foot of the bed and sees a packed bag. He picks up another note attached to it.

_William,_

_I hope your taste in clothing will prove a lot more refined, being that you’ve spent years with my counterpart. I’ve packed all that I believe to pass as somewhat acceptable from Will’s closet. It is a disappointingly low number._

_Nevertheless, if you need anything in particular, you need only ask me. I am greatly looking forward to seeing you tonight._

_Alana will be joining us. It is time we clear the air, yes?_

_H.L._

Will tosses the paper on the bed and has to refrain from crumpling the letter in his annoyance at having to read Alana’s name written in Hannibal— no, Lecter’s calligraphy. There’s still that spike of jealousy that he can’t seem to permanently shake off. But either way, he appreciates Lecter’s resolve in keeping the record straight. He’s all for any plan geared towards making sure that Lecter won’t have some daft, starry-eyed tart invading his space.

He glances at the clock and sees the time is just a little over four. Plenty of time to get ready, to dress to kill - hopefully - for the night. He’s just about to go downstairs when movement by the window catches his attention. Will goes over to the window sill and looks down, just in time to see a blur of red walk into the shed.

Shit.

“Fucking Lounds,” Will curses under his breath as he quickly makes his way down the stairs. She’s always butting into people’s lives, putting her nose in places where it’s not wanted. It seems that no matter what dimension it is, she always excels at one thing in particular, getting on Will’s nerves, aggravating him and driving him to murder.

Well, she’s gonna get what’s coming to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh, Freddie. And that dinner with Alana. That can't end well. Don't worry, we will finally see how our own beloved version of Will Graham is fairing in the other world in the next chapter. Ciao for now.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked the story so far, comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you. It's food for the soul <33


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